


Galra Steel

by girlskylark



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Ambassador Lance, Blood and Gore, Fantasy, Fantasy AU, Galra Empire, Guard Hunk, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kingdoms, Knight Shiro, Knights - Freeform, Medieval, Multi, Occasional swearing, Panic Attacks, Royalty, Soldiers, Stabbing, War, altea, basically Clash of Clans but feat. space nerds, but I ship Pidge with happiness, does NOT take place in space, does space exist here?, frequent stabbing episodes, gays in a renaissance fair, gays in space?, nifty sword fights, promiscuous Lance because why the frick not, ships are undetermined, snappy comebacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-08-07 11:50:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 122,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7713844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlskylark/pseuds/girlskylark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Pidge juggles several personas under the direct objection of the noble--but mentally and physically scarred--knight named Shiro. Their quest to retrieve the Prince and King from the Galra Empire involves developing alliances with the promiscuous royal advisor Lance and his guard Hunk.</p><p>Or: Pidge just does whatever the frick they want against OBVIOUS OBJECTIONS from many people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brutal Defeat

**Author's Note:**

> This AU takes place on a planet where Earth as it was in the show is represented by the kingdom Terra. Seeing as Terra is in the midst of being taken over by the Galra Empire, several chapters involve BLOOD and GORE. Because being with the Galra requires a blood-thirst level of 7-10.

When Pidge Gunderson joined the Garrison, it wasn’t because he was the orphan his papers listed him as. It wasn’t because of the draft—it forced all men over the age of thirteen to join the military effort, which didn’t exactly include Pidge, if his forged papers been correct. They never would have allowed him to hold a sword, much less do anything useful for the sake of his own country in the midst of war. If the truth were to get out, people would laugh, or perhaps lapse into a fit of grief— _no, that person you speak of is dead. You couldn’t possibly be…_  
  
He felt his lie crumbling, wishing that faking his own death would be enough to save him from his _actual_ death. He wished he had the time he hoped for—the time to _train_ properly. What the draft didn’t specify was how three years of training barely seemed like a week. They never mentioned how little time some cadets had to prepare, even if they never held a sword in their lives prior to the service. Still, it was enough to teach Pidge how to dodge the oncoming attack, no matter how impossibly swift the lunge had been—the strength behind those poised feet, bolting ahead with the agility of incomprehensible knowledge of battle.  
  
Screaming, he swung up his blade and sliced up, sending a spray of blood where the sword cut into his passing opponent. Washed over in red, Pidge sneered at his enemy as he turned and plunged the blade through the weak point in the armpit—a lucky shot to say the least. It was one of the few advantages the Garrison had over these inhumane enemies—they knew all about armor, and the weaknesses in it.  
  
The blade cut up through the muscles of the shoulder, and struck the man’s neck. As he fell, Pidge stumbled forward, blade caught between plates of metal as the arm closed down over it. Shouts and screams rained down on him as he panicked, yanking at the pommel until the blade finally sprung free, and lunged him straight for one of his own men.  
  
They turned on each other in a haze, prepared to strike, only to realize that they were on the same side. Suddenly, a look of determination seized Pidge’s comrade, and he shouted, “Get down!” before cutting his blade across the air over Pidge’s head. An axe fell beside him, followed by the body of a decapitated enemy soldier.  
  
Pidge covered his comrade’s back as his blade crossed swords with yet another Galra demon in human flesh. Oh how he _loathed_ the empire that sought to conquer this land. But as he stood over the bodies of friends and fiends, in the wake of a thousand others—the gore of it all tore at his stomach. He nearly crumbled to his knees had his sights not focused on the sharp eye slits of a Galra helmet, hands adjusting on the hefty pommel of a commander’s weapon. The glint of purple coating the steel was enough to send Pidge scrambling back—his teachers always told him to run at the sight of it.  
  
_Do not engage—do not engage—_ Pidge hated nothing more than those damn enchanted blades that he had yet to comprehend. He despised anything he couldn’t understand, no matter how many hours he poured into studying the strange lattice work of magic-infused steel.  
  
He took off running, dodging and jumping around soldiers as they were cut down one-by-one under the indestructible force of Galra steel. A single cut was enough to tear skin from bone, and send the rest of the flesh smoking into ash. The sound of it was excruciating in Pidge’s ears—he couldn’t very well concentrate on the bodies at his feet when that _godforsaken noise was following him._  
  
Pidge took refuge behind the sullied bark of a redwood, sheltered by the root system of the ancient, monstrous tree. Breath heavy and fast, Pidge watched his people flee, and fight, and collapse around him. He watched the Galra commander clobber a man against a faraway redwood, cutting straight through the trunk as the head of the soldier rolled away. Fire blazed at the edges where he retracted his sword. The entire tree began crumbling into ash, cracking, sputtering, and collapsing against the branches of its neighbor. It began to fall in the wake of both his people, and Pidge’s.  
  
_The amount of savagery it takes to kill his own people,_ Pidge thought, staring wide eyed at the devastation. The ground shook and knocked him sideways when the tree fell. By the time he was up, he realized that the world around him went dark and purple under the shadow of the Galra commander.  
  
Out of pure instinct, Pidge swung up his sword and held it briefly under the crash of his enemy’s Galra steel. The commander’s blade sliced straight through Pidge’s sword, and severed it in half with a horrifying cry. Pidge’s bloodied hands dropped, and if he had the strength to sob he would have, but not for mercy, or for righting all the wrongs he did to his own kingdom. All that was enough guilt to destroy a man where he stood, but not enough to stop this Galra commander from killing a boy no older than fifteen.  
  
Pidge waited for the Galra steel to render him a corpse, but instead the sword in the commander’s hand fell. The pommel was smoking, blistered, and nothing but naked steel where the leather cover once was. Pidge stared at it until his eyes finally rose and terror seized him—  
  
_How could they know who I am?_  
  
_I can’t be taken prisoner—not like—_  
  
_Fuck, fuck, fuck I’m going to die I’m going to die—_  
  
The commander’s helmet cap flipped open, and Pidge would have screamed if his throat wasn’t so dry with nervous horror. The realization that the Galra Empire knew he was still alive vanished the second Pidge recognized the face staring back at him.  
  
Those normally sharp, calculating eyes stared at Pidge in shock. Black irises, squarish face framed by the obsidian helm cap, and suddenly Pidge could see the man he knew as a kid—the one who knew _Pidge_ as being more than what the Garrison knew him as. The Garrison classified this man as dead—not _alive_ and _fighting for the Galra Empire._  
  
At least, until he dropped to his knees before Pidge and bowed his head, exclaiming, “Prince Matthew! I didn’t realize—h-how did you—?”  
  
_Escape?_  
  
Pidge didn’t know, because he may not have been Pidge, but he certainly wasn’t his brother, Prince Matthew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found [this](http://sodam-art.tumblr.com/post/147319646972/hunk-uses-a-spear) just after coming up with the idea and thought, you know what? Let's do this.


	2. Possible Enemy #1

Pidge Gunderson knew several things about royalty, being a member of that special society himself, but it was never like this. He couldn’t recall the last time he had someone there to expose their neck out to him, pledge their allegiance, and fight for him without question. Before his days with the Garrison, before he became an “orphan”, he was followed by people like this black-eyed soldier without his agreement. His father was a stickler for protection, and now Pidge knew why. His father had no protection the day the Galra broke their agreement and kidnapped, and possibly killed, the king of this land. It wasn’t the start of the war, but it certainly didn’t help it.

Now, without his father’s guidance, or the heir to the throne, Pidge felt crippled under the weight of a kingdom at war. He couldn’t possibly pick up where his father left off—nor would the council allow it. They would never let a person like Pidge run a nation, and it wasn’t just because he was barely fifteen years old.

“Sh-Shiro?” Pidge stammered, wondering if he truly did look like Matthew in the state he was in. The amount of blood on everyone would make it difficult to tell the difference between amateur soldiers and senior ones.

The knight looked completely disoriented, just as Pidge felt. Suddenly Shiro was on his feet, and held a hand out to Pidge. He looked at it and back at the knight, who shut his helm cap and turned briefly to say, “It does not matter now, sir. You shouldn’t be—never mind. Follow me,” he ordered, sweeping the Galra steel up again and dragging Pidge forward. 

He looked down at the pommel in his own hand, and the steel that Shiro severed in half. A man on _his_ side never would have destroyed the only weapon he held. How would Pidge protect himself? He couldn’t rely on—

Suddenly Shiro turned the both of them into the wake of a Galra squad, and fear seized Pidge—would this ex-knight turn him in? Would he be captive, just like his family? He couldn’t—he _wouldn’t_ —let Shiro hand him over to the enemy.

He yanked his arm and dug his heels into the ground, tripping over bodies as they went. Shiro’s firm grip tightened, and didn’t let up until his blade abruptly cut up and gutted the Galra personnel before them, and swung towards the man beside the victim. Single-handedly, the knight speared another through the chest and, dropped Pidge, grabbed another by the throat. Pidge staggered away, and couldn’t stop himself from staring when Shiro’s firm grip crushed the Galra soldier’s throat.

 _Imagine what he could have done to my wrist,_ Pidge thought, momentarily dropping his sword in the shock of watching Shiro. He bent down to retrieve it, and instead came up with a Galra weapon. It may not have had magic-infused steel, but it was certainly better than a destroyed sword.

Those of Pidge’s people who could, fled, the others he found trapped by Galra soldiers, dragged about by cuffed hands or mutilated limbs. Shiro cut down a Galra soldier repeatedly stabbing a cadet who was long-since dead. Pidge caught the body out of instinct, and with a lurch of his stomach, he set the corpse down gingerly before following after his knight who broke the both of them away from the war zone, and to the thick foliage of the redwood forest. His stomach clenched at the sound of people screaming and fleeing, and the painful sorrows of fallen comrades.

Away from danger, Pidge leant against the roots of a redwood and panted hard, out of breath. At last the sensation in his stomach rose, and the ugly taste in his mouth ejected from him. He vomited all he could until he crouched there dry heaving over raw bile.

Shiro tore off his helm and hastily ripped at the straps of his cuirass. Pidge watched and realized the knight’s hands were shaking, even after he threw the uniform on the ground and paced. 

At last, the part Pidge dreaded returned to shout in his face—“What the _hell_ were you thinking? Going into battle! I apologize if it’s out of my position to say it was idiotic of you as a _prince_ and _heir_ to sacrifice yourself like this!” Shiro’s fury made his usually pale complexion boil red, and press a startling detail into Pidge’s conscience. Unlike the person he knew as a child, this Shiro sported an intimidating scar that stretched from one cheek to the other. His naturally black hair was suddenly marred by a patch pure silver and white hair that bore all of Pidge’s attention away from the problem at hand. 

They were discussing Pidge’s _prince hood_ that didn’t exist. Yes. That was it.

“And how the hell did you escape? Do they know you went back to Terra, sir?” Shiro demanded, and broke away to stare at Pidge closely. Despite the trauma of killing men all day, and avoiding death, Pidge still managed to stare back until the realization buckled Shiro’s knees, and he collapsed hardly a foot away from the vomit in front of Pidge.

“You… you are not my prince,” Shiro uttered, voice hoarse. 

“No, I am not,” Pidge finally spoke, which brought the knight’s eyes up from the ground.

“You hardly sound like yourself,” he commented, and shook his head as grief devoured his expression. “I haven’t seen you in _years_. You are even… you’re even taller than Matthew the last I saw of him.”

“Is he still alive?” Pidge demanded. “And what of my father?”

Shiro watched Pidge a moment longer before blinking and seeming to forget the question entirely. A fierceness took over him, and he rose once more. “This doesn’t change anything. What were you doing out here? Your mother couldn’t possibly—”

“She’s dead. She has been for a while now,” Pidge told him, and looked away to avoid seeing the reaction the news caused. “A Galra assassin infiltrated the kitchens and poisoned our dinner. I would have died as well if I was actually _hungry_ that night. I think it was the chicken—I’m just glad they didn’t poison the peanut butter crumble…” He often thought of that evening, and went back and repeated the entire sequence until it made his head spin to try and remember everything in his peripheral vision. What _had_ they poisoned? It wasn’t the potatoes—the queen didn’t heat any of that. The wine? No, she didn’t drink that either… But either way she was gone by sundown, and it was just after Pidge visited her to read.

As Pidge began spiraling into this usual thought process, Shiro began wondering just how he gained consciousness at the sight of Pidge cowering against the redwood roots surrounded by gore and absolutely covered in it.

“Katherine,” Shiro called out, and instantly Pidge cringed, shoulders curving in and a glare settling in. 

“ _Don’t_ call me that. I go by Pidge Gunderson now,” she hissed, “and the only reason I’m here is because I didn’t _want_ to be recognized. Do you think I wanted _any_ of this? The councilmen think I’m unfit to rule, even though Matthew was just a year older than me and wasn’t questioned as an heir! They were so invested in deciding amongst themselves which one of _them_ would be fit to take father’s place to realize I was gone.”

In a fury, Pidge began flinging the sword left and right until Shiro grabbed the blade with his gloved hand and stopped it. The girl stared at Shiro’s hand in shock before raising her eyes up to his. “Princess, even if you weren’t happy with the councilmen, it was no excuse to flee. It was absolutely _no_ excuse to throw yourself into war like this. You could have—you _would have_ died had I not—”

“You nearly killed me anyway,” she hissed at him, and despite the fact that his hand was still around the blade of her sword, she tore it out of his grip. If it hadn’t cut into his skin before then, it surely would have then. Instead it didn’t; it only cut through the fabric of his glove. “You were dressed like a Galra commander—you have a high-grade Galra weapon only leaders are capable of getting their hands on, and you used it to cut through my only weapon. If those aren’t the actions of an enemy, I don’t know what are.”

Her shoulders were bunched up, and face red with anger as Shiro pulled at his glove and stared down at it with an expression she couldn’t read. He didn’t answer, at least not until she started storming away. “I don’t know how to explain myself,” he confessed, “but you should not be out here on your own. I will take you back to camp—”

“No, you absolutely will _not_ ,” she hissed at him, whirling back around. “I don’t want you following me, I don’t want you telling everyone who I am, what I’m doing, or that you ‘saved’ me. You could have killed me!”

“I could have! But I didn’t, Princess,” he insisted, exasperated as he followed after her regardless of how brutally she cursed him when he did. “I can’t remember how I got to where I am now, but suddenly I was thinking about my prince and then… I was staring at you thinking you were Matthew. You have to admit the resemblance is uncanny.”

“I wouldn’t know considering I haven’t seen him since I was nine,” Pidge muttered, glaring up at Shiro before ducking under a fallen tree and sliding out to the other side. “You might want to bring your Galra gear—it will be somewhat useful.”

She hoped that by diverting him long enough, she might be able to escape the renegade knight. By the time she wove between several redwoods she was already dozens of yards away from the crumble of fallen trees where she left him. She leapt down the edge of a shallow ravine and ducked behind a skinny tree clinging to the edge of the decline. She hooked herself between two gnarly ropes of roots and waited. 

  


_Pidge @Shiro: come at me, bitch._

  


Shiro couldn’t stand to wear the damn helmet any longer than necessary, but the cuirass was enough to disguise him as Galra. The longer he stared at the bold metal emblem engraved on the chest plate, the more he wanted to melt it down with the Galra steel in his hand. 

As he lunged over the fallen tree and twisted through the unruly weeds, he looked at the fist that held the blade. The glove was useless, seeing as the majority of it was already burnt to ash. His hand appeared normal except for the fact that the Princess had her sword blade in it, and cut it straight across his palm without so much as a scratch. 

Shiro walked a ways before realizing he hadn’t heard or seen the girl after crossing over. He paused among the thorny bushes and dark shadows where the trees covered the sky. For a second he thought to call for her, but looking back, he could still see the smoke rising from where they left, and the echo of men yelling over the battlefield. What would he shout anyway? Princess Katherine? Pidge Gunderson? This identity crisis was too much for him to handle when he already had an existential crisis the second he came face-to-face with her at the base of that redwood.

“Pidge!” he called out, keeping his voice reasonably quiet—at least, as best he could without whispering it. “Pidge, come on, now’s not the time for hide and seek.”

The helmet hung off a clip on his hip, and as he walked, the sheath of his sword hung loose at his side. He covered it and sighed, holding both of his hands to his head. It felt as if he’d just been born into a different life no more than half an hour ago, only to realize that the only person he knew _hated him_ , didn’t _trust him_ , and now was _hiding from him_. It was enough to give anyone a headache. 

_Well isn’t this just so fucking perfect?_ he mused in irritation. He wondered just how far the Princess could run—he had to say she was never the athletic type back in the day, but it seemed like she was in training since then. Perhaps her endurance suddenly spiked? What horrible timing as well, when Shiro could hardly fathom running while lugging this equipment.

He was glad that he was suddenly paired with the Princess, whom he knew more of than, say, the soldiers in his squad he just massacred. He knew nothing of them, or how they came to be in his control. It was ridiculous because even as they screamed and shouted at him, he couldn’t understand their language. At one point, had _he_ been capable of speaking in Galra tongues? _No, that’s absurd—no one forgets an entire language they_ used _to know_.

The Princess was another matter. He knew more of her brother than anything, being on the king’s guard during the time Matthew’s father reigned. He felt guilty for coming-to and realizing that he was no longer at the Prince’s side, but his enemy’s. It was no wonder Pidge despised him now.

The urge to destroy something—anything—took over control of Shiro’s battle arm. Soon the blade was out and Galra steel severed the edge of a redwood, and while the blade was hardly as long as its diameter, it was enough to set the bark ablaze, and the trunk to ash. 

Up until this point he was barely conscious of anything besides indications of emotions—he felt the devastation of the Galra seeping into his very being. What they _did to him_ , what they _did_? What _did they do to him_? A sensation akin to fear gripped his heart in ice, and he wondered just how long it would take to realize how terribly being named a Galra commander would effect him. _What did it take to become a fucking commander for the Galra?_

The harder he thought of it, the more his migraine spiked, and seemed to penetrate his muscles. He fell to his knees, held up by the heated point of his steel blade. Ash cascaded over him—collecting in his hair and turning it whiter than it was before. The heat of the blazing redwood was the first thing he felt coming out of his emotional rampage, and the necessity of retreating from it.

“Goddammit Shiro! Get your shit together—” a voice was saying, straining under the weight of dragging him by his arm. The second his head fell back and he saw the Princess’ resolute expression, the pieces fell back into place.

He scrambled to his feet and realized his sword was gone—he ran back to retrieve it several yards back, just moments before a massive branch the width of his entire body collapsed where they once stood. He grabbed Pidge around the arm and sprinted, regardless of whether or not she could keep up.

They ran eastward—away from the fight, the burning tree, and the ravine in which Pidge hid until she detected smoke in the air. He hiked her up the other end of the ravine and as disappeared into the underbrush and the wild foliage of the redwood forest, the ground shook under impact. The tree was down, and they were both gone.

  


_Shiro @forest: Whoops, my bad._

  


As Pidge ran with her shoulders straight and legs flying faster than she could imagine, she hissed under her breath, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—” and would curse louder when the collateral damage of Shiro’s idiocy tore down trees in their path. 

“Dear _God,_ keep yourself together,” Shiro snapped at her, and she could have screamed and tore her hair out at that moment if they weren’t _running for their lives_.

“ _Me?_ What about _you?_ I should’ve left you in the rubble, you twat,” she retorted.

She looked to him just in time to see him roll his eyes, hardly seeming out of breath from this sort of work out. Though she had to admit, that gear looked heavy, which explained why their pace was rather slow at this point. “Excuse me? Was I the one to set a tree on fire—in the _redwood forest_ no less? No, I didn’t think so. So shut your trap.”

“To be fair, that was my first time—how was I to know-?”

“For heaven’s sake, you chopped one down before you severed my sword in half and nearly _killed me_ ,” Pidge shouted, and huffed to declare she required a break. When she crouched down to grab her knees, she swore Shiro looked relieve to stop, even for just a few seconds. 

In the time it took to regain her breath by pacing a little with her hands on her hips, she tried to recall the routes around the area that would be well-traveled, and those that were locally-known. By the turn of events at the war, and the number of bodies she saw of her own men—as well as the fact that Shiro demolished his entire squadron of Galra soldiers single-handedly—she determined that the both of them would be hunted, and fast. Most of the witnesses of her and Shiro’s escape were Galra, and taken out in the squadron, but there could be others. There _were_ others, if Pidge wanted to be safe.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” she decided, turning back to Shiro who rested against a tree with the Galra helmet on the ground, and the steel sword in its sheath. “And I’m including you in this not because I _like you_ or we were _ever friends_ , but because you have valuable information—”

Shiro rolled his head on his shoulders and groaned, “I _told you_ I don’t remember anything.”

“Keep telling yourself that. Retrograde amnesia goes both ways—temporary, or permanent. We are going to stick to the temporary diagnosis, seeing as you seem to be regaining new memory nicely. Well, so far you don’t seem to be forgetting anything that happened since you woke up from… _whatever_ ,” Pidge explained, waving her hand dismissively at the subject. “But never mind that. Your memory—and fighting skills—are the most important aspect about you and that is why I am letting you in on this plan.”

“I am coming with either way, whether or not you see me as an asset,” Shiro pointed out, only to receive a scowl in reply. “If I could not protect your brother, then my position as a king’s guardsmen is to protect the rest of the royal family—that means you.”

“You _failed_ to protect my brother,” Pidge retorted. “You _failed_ , which means you _aren’t_ suitable for the job as king’s guardsmen—”

Shiro stood up and exclaimed, “I do not have the entire story! In other words, perhaps I did help him! Perhaps he is elsewhere, away from the Galra—maybe he isn’t even _in_ their custody? Did you ever consider it? Or were you too busy being a cynical little brat to think that, oh, I don’t know, the Prince is safe?”

Pidge felt her patience wearing thin, and the result of it was the taste of blood in her mouth when she bit her tongue. Ever since joining the Garrison, she learned something valuable—to keep her mouth shut if her opinion wasn’t wanted. So far she was doing a terrible job of _that_. “The _plan_ ,” she sneered, “is to move farther north-east following the narrow point of the redwood forest, and escape outside of Terra. We have allies in the north whom the Galra haven’t advanced on yet, and we’ll seek refuge _there_.”

“And what of your people? The ones you were with, or Terra in general? Will you abandon them?” he demanded, folding his arms as if his point was already made. Unfortunately for him, Pidge had long since abandoned her place in Terra. She had no control over it now, even before she left. She never had a say in anything, and after all that happened here, she doubted they’d accept her back.

“They don’t want, nor need me,” she declared, with a jolt of irritation in her voice. “As a _girl_ , the council refuses to see my ideas as credible. They say they blame my age, but Matthew was even younger than _I_ was when I finally left.” Pidge rubbed her forearm against her cheek and gave an angry groan. 

A hand jostled her shoulder, and she lowered her arm to see the knight leaning down to look her in the eye. “Pidge,” he said, “You don’t have to be anything the councilmen _want_. It doesn’t matter _what_ they want—whether they like it or not you have a right to the throne, even if they wanted an overseer to advise you. That is all they would have done—it’s all they _could_ have done. Your father told me that was how it would be if something happened to him or Prince Matthew.”

Pidge blinked and wished she could have said he was right, but everyone, even her own _mother_ told her the opposite. Facts were facts, and Pidge wasn’t raised to lead like her father was, or Matthew. She was raised… _differently_ , in a way that convinced people that she was on a pedestal to strive for, but not necessarily to follow. If she went back, she’d just be a figurehead. 

“If they knew I was Katherine and that I was still alive… I don’t even want to think about it,” she confessed, and seethed when she recalled all the gossip from the cadets in the Garrison. “They’ve appointed a temporary advisor from Altea—but I prefer the word _bullied into_.”

“And you planned to go to Altea anyway—you don’t seem to agree with their decision,” he commented.

“They may be our allies, but are… less likely to take a offensive approach when it comes to the Galra. It’s the only reason the Galra haven’t taken interest in them—because their defenses have been in the works for over a decade. You must recall when they began building the Barrier,” Pidge said, recollecting that it began even before the war. The Barrier was a massive ten-yard wide wall they erected on the border of Altea. Since the abduction of Prince Matthew, King Samuel, and other guardsmen like Shiro, Altea successfully completed their wall, and reinforced it with ‘round-the-clock archers. On almost all cases, they were trained to aim and fire on sight—especially if soldiers of any kind approach. 

Perhaps going there would be a suicide mission.

“And they completed it?” Shiro asked, and Pidge nodded. 

“Either way it’d be dangerous to enter without authorized permission. Immigrants from across the continent wait at the only entrances in _hordes_. Most of the soldiers I know of were recruited there—most waited _months_ before the Garrison was able to approach them with positive answers,” Pidge explained. “But if you provide proof of your existence, Altea would ship us straight to their capital—”

“After a month of interrogation,” Shiro corrected. “The war on Terra could be over in that time.”

Pidge muffled her disappointment with a hand over her mouth, and a firm set of her eyebrows to put Shiro off from blubbering on about how they were essentially hopeless out here a mile or two from a war zone, in the middle of the redwood forest, and absolutely friendless in the face of both sides. No one would trust Shiro back at the capital… unless…

“You said I looked like Matthew,” Pidge blurted out. “The ‘resemblance is uncanny’, if I remember correctly.”

Shiro’s eyes widened before narrowing at her. She knew the look well enough to tell he disapproved. Just as he was about to bitch about how terrible the idea was, she started her tirade on how perfect it was: “They would accept Prince Matthew more so than they would accept the both of us on our own. A knight returning the beloved Prince, heir to the throne—in danger of the Galra—they want his head, they have to keep him safe, they’ll—”

“Send _you_ to Altea,” Shiro concluded.

“They will send you as well being the knight who saved the Prince,” she said. “And if the Prince part falls through, then I’ll think of a backup.”

“Like going as your usual self?” he chastised, implying that he didn’t agree with disguising oneself as one’s sibling.

Pidge scoffed at him and declared the idea flawless—the both of them would practice her impressions of Prince Matthew. Shiro knew the boy well enough to tell when Pidge’s acting was spot on. It did enough to pass the time walking, and wearing holes in the bottom of their boots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Shiro's situation is akin to a wild night on the town, waking up in the morning with a hangover, and not remembering cutting down the tree in his front lawn.


	3. Lovely Surprises

Terra’s capital was walled, which was a difficult feat considering the terrane it rested on. It was in the foothills of the mountains where Pidge’s old home rested, and the fortification walls bent across hilly grounds and blocked off the valley where visitors approached the gates. Pidge eyed the watchmen on the edges of the valley walls, and realized that anyone would feel nervous walking into a place like this with archers poised to shoot at them if given the command. She was grateful they weren’t trained like those at the Altean borders.

“I don’t recall defenses like this being authorized. No one will want to enter the city,” Shiro commented. “How do we expect refugees to feel welcome?”

“That’s the point,” Pidge hissed, hardly moving her lips. “Accepting massive numbers of refugees was what caused a Galra assassin to take out the Queen.”

Shiro’s disapproval with it remained only in his expression. They didn’t bring it up talking, which meant they didn’t talk at all the entire walk to the gates. Pidge was somewhat thankful for that, at least until her thoughts became hectic enough to give her anxiety. The worry of failing as a decent improv actress was hanging over her head. She was just glad the Garrison taught her the basics on the dirtier side of men—though, her brother was none of it. She imagined he would _never_ have gone into battle like she did. He was always content with swordsmanship tutors training him in the courtyards at home.

_Home_. She hadn’t called the capital that since she left three years before. It was the longest she ever spent away from the protective walls and the stern regimen of classes, of reading, writing, mathematics, mealtimes… And it didn’t take long for her to realize she didn’t miss it. She could count the number of times she felt homesick on one hand, mostly due to the harsher treatments at the Garrison. A person could get over that sort of rough-tough life after a month.

There were people at the gate waiting to be let in, and most formed a single line before the guards stationed along the edges, and watching over those who came in. Boxes were torn through. Bags were emptied, searched. People were patted down, weapons removed for inspection, and then interrogation of the holder. Pidge looked to Shiro’s hip, where the Galra steel sat. Then she looked to her own clothes, and the sword at her own hip. 

_Matthew wouldn’t wait in line like this_ , Pidge thought as they approached the end. After pausing, she nudged Shiro and nodded ahead. He urged her to his side and began the walk ahead of the line, and to the guards at the gates. 

Before they could approach past ten feet, a man came up to them with a hand held out, and the other on his weapon. “Back of the line. I’m sorry this business takes time—you’ll have to wait like everyone else.”

The man pushed Pidge back by the chest, and was instantly sought after by Shiro. Before a fight could start out—or attention drawn—Pidge interrupted. “Thank you for your vigilance, sir,” she said. “You must not recognize us. This is Takashi Shirogane, part of the king’s guard.”

Pidge’s heart was about ready to fly straight out of her chest and flop on the ground like a frantic fish. She wondered how long it would take to convince the man. A new recruit? Did he not know of Shiro? 

After a brief look at the knight, the man looked back at Pidge. Shiro spoke up, “I am here to return the Crowned Prince. Send for Harris—that is, if Harris wound up _not_ retiring to their cottage after all.”

With a pointed look at the guard, Shiro had the man convinced. Pidge had to admit, he didn’t think the knight had it in him, rebelling against his own people, helping thwart the soldiers into thinking that the Prince returned. 

Despite having convinced one guardsmen, Shiro and Pidge waited outside the gates for the person in charge to arrive. The guard who was sent as messenger was so hasty in his mission that he nearly tripped himself running through the gates. Pidge chuckled before being quieted by the knight with a stern look.

The line at the gate was put on hold, and for a brief moment Pidge felt guilty for intercepting people going about their daily lives. She imagined some of the messengers came from hundreds of miles away to deliver news from commanders and generals. In the end, there was little she could do to change it until someone verified her identity. For now, she was a suspect until proven otherwise.

The next time the door opened, it was to reveal an officer in uniform, walking briskly towards them with the physique of a trained body, and harsh mentality. As they approached, Pidge stammered at the sight of the woman beneath the cap, and the face of judgement she wore. She was glad Shiro was there so she could hide behind him, but then she asked herself, _What would Matthew do?_

Shiro bowed his head to the woman, and she merely watched him before holding out her hand. He removed his sword from the sheath in reply, and Pidge wanted to scream at him. That was certainly _one way_ to get everyone on his case about being with the Galra—at least until he wrapped the destroyed pommel with a glove and passed it to her. 

She took it and raised the blade up, examining it through narrow-slitted eyes. “Lovely trophy this is,” she commented. Her voice was gravelly, and seemed to be on the verge of a sneer. _Unimpressed_ , Pidge assumed. “I cannot say we have much Galra steel here. I only know of a handful of people capable of getting their hands on this high-profile weaponry, Shirogane.”

He gave her a shallow bow, a smile on his face. “Harris, I accompany the Crowned Prince, Matthew Holt.” With this said, he gestured to Pidge, who merely stared at the woman in fascination. She stared at him a moment longer, and seemed satisfied with what she saw. 

She gestured to the guardsmen at the gate. They opened the door and allowed them through, accompanied by Commander Harris in all her intimidating glory. Pidge wondered if she could look and act like that some day. _Probably not, but it was a nice thought_ , she mused.

Thankfully, the commander spent minimal time speaking to Pidge when she realized that the “Crowned Prince” wasn’t interested in a chat. They were simple enough, starting with, “Was the journey tolerable?” followed by, “I will have the advisor notified, and the council informed. I expect a meeting will be talked of—if they happen to ask, what time would you prefer?” 

They were led to the stables where Pidge mounted a horse for the first time in a year, and Shiro—perhaps the first time in _years_. She smirked when Shiro mentioned, “Well, my memory of loathing horseback riding hasn’t changed.”

The commander followed alongside Shiro and Pidge, and around them guards she summoned from the gates. Their circle of people migrated towards the palace, where Pidge dreaded intercepting people she knew as the Katherine they all were familiar with. She hoped her haircut and the muscle she put on in training was enough to prevent the servants she saw on a daily basis from recognizing her.

They dismounted at the palace gates and were waved through by Commander Harris. Pidge started forward, even as the commander stopped to send a message with one of the servants, and walked ahead across the courtyard with a look of awe donning her visage. 

_Little has changed_ , she mused, and it developed a frown on her face. _Well if that isn’t “reassuring”_.

She hoped this wasn’t the same with the people _inside_ those doors—

Just as she thought it, she regretted letting a word of it slip through her mind. It summoned the people whom she loathed to talk to, but thankfully, she didn’t recognize the fellow who galloped down the stairs with the single most obnoxious grin on his face.

Suddenly a hand dropped onto her shoulder, and pulled her back. Shiro faced the stranger first, despite having the eyes of several guards watching him. Pidge observed their structure around this stranger, and it wasn’t difficult to put two-and-two together.

_This is the advisor Altea sent_? she gawked, and wondered if everyone was so cheery in the face of war.

“This is _such_ a lovely surprise,” the man announced, throwing his arms up before sweeping them down into a bow. “Prince Matthew, we are glad to have you back.”

Pidge glanced up at Shiro, who watched the man skeptically before adjusting his attention to the guards. There were five of them, but one seemed to monitor Altea’s advisor more closely. The second the advisor stepped towards Pidge, the guard stepped with him, and Shiro blocked the both of them.

“State your name and position here,” Shiro demanded. “We do not recognize you.”

The advisor retracted his hands and gave a wily grin in response. “I imagine that would be because you both have been missing for quite some time. I was just going to introduce myself to my Prince—” and, turning to Pidge with a bow, he spoke, looking up from the ground, “You may call me Lance, the advisor the King of Altea sent to aid your kingdom in the war.”

“Lance?” Pidge repeated, quirking up an eyebrow. “And your family name is…?”

Lance gave a laugh and waved his hand as if Pidge just made the funniest joke of the _century_. He ended with a sigh, and hooked his fingers around the clasp of his jacket collar. “Oh, no need for such _formalities_. Why don’t you and I have a chat, hm? I will inform you of what has occurred since that unfortunate incident.”

Pidge’s eyes narrowed at the man, and it was enough for Shiro to decline the offer. “I’ll be going to my room, and do not call on me until an official meeting takes place,” Pidge added and, accompanied by Shiro, started up the steps to the palace doors. She knew the advisor, _Lance_ , and his people were following her, so she shouted, “Where is my sister? I wish to see her.”

The exclamation surprised her knight, who glanced at her with another disapproving look that she chose to ignore—again. Instead, she turned to face the oncoming Lance, who surprised her by being no less than five feet away. 

He turned her forward with a hand on her shoulder, and walked ahead with her—she hoped her acting was just as good close up as it was far away. “My Prince, this is one of the things I wished to discuss with you—it seems… like such a dreary topic to discuss five minutes in to your return.”

“Has she been married off?” Pidge asked, concern leaking into her voice as she glanced at Shiro. He was glowering at her with such disdain. 

Lance sighed and said, “It was planned for—when I arrived several years back, it was in hopes of alining our kingdoms prospects more precisely. Several weeks prior, however, we received word that Princess Katherine… left us.” 

A pause followed the discourse in which Pidge turned her face completely to Shiro and smirked wickedly at him—and _he_ thought the council wouldn’t do such a thing to their _dearest Princess_.

When she turned back, her head was down, and eyebrows curved in a distraught fashion. “And… a-and what do you mean by _left?_ ”

“I imagine the prospects of marriage are—”

“Did she flee? Did you not go after her?” Pidge raised her voice, and seemed to startle the lad while doing so.

“No, sir—she took her life—there was nothing we could do to stop her—” 

“You blame yourself, then, it seems like,” she countered, growing angry and determined as she pulled him to a stop. “You pressured her into marriage when—when she was just a child?” She felt like she was towering over him then, even with a ten-inch height difference in his favor. His eyes were wide and glistening—maybe he was about to cry, she didn’t know, but she mimicked it and in a shaky voice commanded, “Get out. I’ll see you in the council meeting tonight.”

Lance all but ran from them and back to his guardsman who patted him on the back and ushered him away from where Pidge stood several paces away from her brother’s room, seething. When they were gone, she relaxed her shoulders and turned to the door. “Let’s go,” she said, shoving open the door to the room.

  


_Pidge @Lance: I’ll see you in court, fuck boy._

  


Shiro didn’t want to say the Princess’s judgement was off-kilter, so he kept that bit to himself. His anxiety was off the charts the second she started bringing up ridiculous plans, such as the one he found himself in now. It was a miracle Harris didn’t see through his lie. _The Crowned Prince—Matthew would disapprove me for trusting his sister, of all people_. 

When he thought of his discussions with his Prince, Katherine came up more often than not on account of the Prince’s concerns for her. But when was this? At what point was the Prince worried for his sister?

As Shiro scratched the scruff on his cheek, he observed Pidge standing just beyond the threshold staring at her brother’s room. It was just how the Prince left it—better or worse. The boy was a stickler for a clean living space, which explained why the desk was in neat order, the bed made, and fresh flowers attended to in the vases on the bedside. Shiro wondered just who saw those flowers on a daily basis—if any. 

Slowly, Pidge lifted one foot after the other and undid the laces on her boots. “You don’t have to stick around here,” she said. 

“Will you be all right on your own?” Shiro asked, and she gave him a dry look, as if to say, _I’ve made it this far on my own, haven’t I?_

He waited a moment longer until Pidge finished snooping around and disappeared into the closet. After shutting the door behind him, he wondered why the door handle felt different in his hand—how _everything_ felt different there. The Galra sword he gave to the commander was powerful enough to burn through raw skin and bones. He held it without so much as a blister.

Footsteps started from down the hall, so Shiro stood in the way of the Prince’s doors and waited as the figure approached. It was a familiar looking man—someone he saw not too long ago tailing after Altea’s advisor. The guardsmen was just as dark-skinned as Lance—perhaps even more so, with dark brown hair pulled back by a plain bandana. Shiro looked over the man as he approached, and appeared several inches taller in size. 

_Intimidating_ , Shiro mused, looking up past the hand the man held out.

“Takashi Shirogane?” the man commented. “I’ve heard a thing or two about you. A legend, or something of the sort.”

“I can’t say the same for you,” he answered, shaking his hand.

“I go by Hunk.”

“Shiro.” They unclasped hands, and the fellow who went by Hunk stood alongside him. He held his hands together in front of him, and seemed to be waiting—for what? For Shiro to talk? 

At last, Shiro sighed and asked, “What brings you here?”

Hunk gave a start as if he wasn’t expecting a conversation, and stammered, “Who? Me? Oh, I just wanted to, you know, stand alongside the famous Shiro.”

He could have laughed had Hunk not seemed so sincere about it. Instead, he scoffed and folded his arms over his chest. “That’s kind of you to say if that man Lance didn’t have something to do with this. Let him know I do not appreciate being spied on.”

Hunk gasped audibly and shook his head, “No, that isn’t it! He would never do such a thing—privacy is important, I’ll have you know, and my lord understands this.”

“ _Lord_?” Shiro repeated. “What family does he come from?”

Hunk waved his hand and glanced the other way, “Tch, enough about family names. Just know that Lance had no intentions of insulting the Prince. Though, it would be a nice gesture for the Prince to accept an invitation to dine with my lord this evening—I mean, only if he is in the spirits for it. The grieving process can be so—” Shiro was thankful the door burst open behind him, if only to save him from this guard’s ramblings.

Pidge peered out through the door with a narrow look in Hunk’s direction. “Why would I accept an invitation from _him?_ ” she demanded, and Hunk visibly gulped under the intensity of Pidge’s stare.

The big brute wrung his hands as he bowed and began stammering, “W-Well, sir, my lord wishes to provide his most sincere apology, and an explanation of the entire event. Seeing as you refused a walk with him around the courtyard, he wishes to speak with you through other means prior to the meeting.”

“And fill my head with lies and brown nosing?” Pidge countered.

“Not at all, sir.”

“I find him to be incredibly obsequious to an almost insulting degree. Be sure to tell him I said so,” she snapped, and nearly slammed the door had Shiro’s hand not intercepted it. 

“He just wants to apologize,” Shiro said, “I recommend you accept the offer.”

After staring a moment longer, Pidge grudgingly agreed to Lance’s invitation before shutting the door and leaving Shiro to sweat over her harsh repartee, and Hunk to give a sigh of relief. Shortly after, Hunk bid Shiro farewell with an awkward handshake before departing at a near-jog down the hall. He hoped Pidge’s insult wouldn’t reach Lance. That would be a terrible way for Pidge to make friends with their ticket to Altea.


	4. Seek Counsel

Matthew used to wear cloaks with two clasps on either shoulder. They were black and embroidered with subtle variations of grey, but the real flare was the gold lining on the underside. With a sweep of his arm, it became visible, and Pidge taunted him on his flashiness. But after meeting the young lord Altea sent as an advisor, Pidge realized that Matthew wasn’t at all flashy. He was sensible in his appearances, which was why Pidge felt comfortable wearing such a modest thing when compared to _Lance_.

He had the flare of a nobleman with every intention of showing it off. She recognized it in the costume he wore to welcome Pidge and Shiro, and now she was blinded by the shiny material of his blue, waist-length coat trimmed with silver. The collar was straight and encircled his neck, and gave the impression of a long, elegant frame— _lean_ , if you will. Pidge nearly vomitted, but Shiro would probably have a fit if she did that. As if he didn’t already give her a lecture to “behave nicely”.

On the bright side, at least Lance looked nervous when he approached Pidge this time, and less likely to make a grand display of affection, as he intended the first time. 

“My Prince, I’d like to thank you for coming—”

“Yeah, I’m famished. I am mostly here for the food,” Pidge declared, speaking loudly as she interrupted. Lance sucked in his lips, as if prepared to swallow any retort he had in mind. 

“I imagine your journey was quite exhausting. I contacted the kitchens to prepare your favorite meal,” he said, and turned to lead Pidge to the dining room. He had his arm held out to her, and she took it before scrunching her eyebrows together. _Favorite meal?_ What was Matthew’s favorite meal? She could hardly remember. She felt as though she was being escorted as a companion—and not the sort people called “friends” or “associates”. 

“I’ve always wondered what fugitives on the run eat—Berries? Rabbits?” Lance said.

_The blood of my enemies_ , Pidge grinned internally. “Small game, mostly. Shiro’s excellent at skinning animals alive.”

“I’d be grateful if you refrained from telling people such things,” her knight muttered from behind, and Pidge snickered in response.

The guards at the dining hall doors pushed them open, and just as they did, Pidge’s countenance fell. The view opened up to the single-most thought of room in her mind, where she recalled each and every second of the last meal she spent with her mother. She paused just inside, pulling Lance to a halt as she cleared her throat and commented, “I heard my mother was poisoned several years ago.”

He dropped his gaze and pursed his lips, his eyes avoiding Pidge’s. “Yes, she passed away as well—it was before I arrived, you see. I wish I had been there to prevent it. The Queen rests at ease now beside her parents.”

Pidge knew this, because she used to visit her tomb stone nightly. It was the last place she visited before escaping the capital. 

“They say her last meal was here,” Pidge commented, and the hesitance in her voice was easily picked up.

“Would you prefer eating elsewhere?” 

“If it isn’t too much trouble.”

“Not at all, sir,” Lance replied, and instantly pulled her back from the dining room. In passing, Lance dismissed Hunk to see that the food be served in the courtyard. _So we wind up there anyway_ , Pidge groaned internally. 

They sat at one of the more comfortable tables in the courtyard, cushioned by vibrantly-dyed pillows and a tablecloth tossed over the stone tabletop. Pidge glanced over at Shiro, who seemed to have a permanent scowl on his face despite making chitchat with Lance’s guardsmen, Hunk. _The man is too serious_ , Pidge decided, and turned back to Lance who’s grim attitude diminished significantly to shine on her that overly-brilliant smile. _Perhaps this one should act more serious_ , she added.

“I’d rather not discuss your imprisonment tonight—that is, if you don’t mind avoiding the subject,” Lance began, and Pidge agreed to it. It wasn’t like she had much to say on the matter… “Then tell me, my Prince, what it is you wish to do? Your time away from home must spark _something_ of a desire—a trip to the library? A walk around the marketplace?”

“I just… want to get back to my responsibilities,” she told him. “Perhaps take some of the trouble off your shoulders.”

“Perfect! I wouldn’t mind a massage,” he joked, and she gave a strained laugh. How could she eat while being flirted with by Altea’s advisor? _Flirted with? That would mean…_

She ignored the fact that his foot was practically touching her calf and looked over at Shiro and Hunk again, trying to speak with them telepathically to _get her out of there_. She didn’t understand how a person like Lance could be so comfortable after being insulted several times prior. This was a new record for her, and living at the Garrison, she knew how to hold a grudge and for how long—an hour-long grudge was certainly not enough. They also told her how to exact her revenge, though after Shiro’s lecture, it would be hard for her to justify taking out revenge on Lance when he was just doing his job—mostly. Touching her calf certainly wasn’t part of his job description.

“Shiro told me you wanted to apologize for prompting the cause of my sister’s suicide,” Pidge declared, expression set to destroy his confidence.

“The situation was hardly intentional, sir—it was and is an uneasy subject to broach,” Lance explained, clasping his hands together in front of his plate. “I imagine there were factors besides that of a marriage proposal from my King in Altea, being that her mother passed away, and you and your father were gone—”

“You blame me for—”

“I blame the Galra, sir, for causing this tragedy on your family,” he articulated, becoming passionate about the subject enough to go red in the face. “Had they not taken you, or your father, or your mother—Katherine’s outlook on life would never have been so bleak. My King never would have initiated it, but both of our kingdoms were unstable under the prospect of war. Bridging the differences of our people by giving them reason to trust in one another may have been enough to—to—”

“Improve the morale of our people,” Pidge finished. “I understand your point, but the pressure on Katherine was surely enough to cripple any eleven-year-old. Royal marriages don’t usually occur until both are sixteen-years-old.”

Lance sighed and rubbed at his temple. “Clearly we had no intention of pressuring Katherine into anything she wasn’t comfortable with. It was with no intention of producing heirs until after our situations improved, if ever.”

“Try explaining that to a little girl,” Pidge huffed. “It clearly went well enough for the both of us.”

They both set their jaws tight and while Pidge glared at him, his eye twitched irritably. She reached for her wine glass and took a hefty sip from it, and hoped it’d be enough to hold her back from fighting him. 

Following the tense meal with Lance, he escorted Pidge to the wing where the councilmen met and surrounded their victims with a circular table, their positions at each of the high-backed chairs. When they entered, they were just getting into place, and as she saw her father do several times, she walked the circumference and shook each of their hands, not speaking as she did so. They would attempt conversation with her, to which she would nod or shake her head, nothing more. Her father had been friendlier with them, but she could hardly stand to look at them now. If only they knew who they were shaking hands with. 

The center of the room came together with the decorative tiles on the floor—an X decorated with deep burgundy tiles that marked the diameter of the tables, and where the lowest portion of the floor met the center of the cross. At the end of one point in the X was where her father once sat, and where Lance now stood. Pidge made her rounds with the councilmen, and took her seat in the chair, looked over by the advisor. Normally, meetings were held in the day, when the skylight provided sunlight, but today, the servants lit the lamps on the walls. The equal-exposure provided her a dim look at the guards around the room, and those she recognized. 

The meeting began with the introduction of Pidge’s arrival, and the instant it was mentioned that she escaped her confinement with the Galra, Commander Harris stepped forward with the Galra steel blade Shiro gave to her. She described its properties she knew of, all of which Pidge was aware of based on her extensive research at the Garrison. The magic with which the Galra enchanted it, and the peculiarities of the blacksmiths assigned to craft such lethal weapons. 

“We knew of the alliance between sorcerers and blacksmiths since the metal armor we’ve acquired from battle, but besides that we rarely see anything beyond standard weaponry by the average soldiers in the Galra militia. Their advancements in the field of sorcery far exceed our own, and swords such as this one prove it.”

She held the weapon up, and Pidge noted the hefty glove she wore, even though the pommel was repaired. “Only modified soldiers are capable of wielding these weapons—mostly individuals who lead men into battle are bestowed these. It appears they have yet to counteract the properties of their own weapons with material strong enough to withstand it. An average pommel does little to protect our hands from it.

“Shirogane, come forward,” the woman said, summoning the knight from the sidelines. He hardly seemed concerned about being brought forward to the center of the council circle, but Pidge’s hands tightened their grip on the armrests. “Remove your sleeve,” she demanded.

The cuirass Shiro wore was laid on the ground, the Galra symbol displayed up for all to see. He pulled at the hem of his shirt, and stripped it off, revealing the build of an experienced knight with a wide, toned chest and narrow hips. He plucked the sleeves off, and it took a moment to realize she wasn’t staring just because he had a fantastic physique, but because of the numerous scars that marred it. 

His entire being was cut into with white and brown scars, crisscrossing over his abdomen, chest, neck—she couldn’t imagine the sort of torture that man went through, and to come out as well as he had? It was a surprise he came back alive at all.

His arms differed in appearance, however. One was just as the rest of him—scarred, red and white, revealing the terrible tragedy he endured. The other, however, was bare of all blemishes.

He seemed to stare at his own body as if he didn’t recognize it, and nearly forgot to obey when his commander ordered him to raise his clean arm. 

“We believe that the Galra Hierarchy—starting at guardsmen and ending at Lord Commander Militant, is a tangible title in their culture. Any ranking above Lieutenant is fitted with gear unheard of in Terra and Altea. They replace human capabilities with… bodily weapons,” Commander Harris explained, and held the Galra steel out to Shiro. Before he could hold it, however, one of the councilmen rose and spoke up.

“And you trust him to hold such a weapon?” he retorted. “A man you suspect of working with the Galra military to destroy us? One strike with that monstrosity and this entire building may fall! We’ll all burn—”

“Your concern is justified,” Shiro answered, and before he could expand, his commander gave him a silencing look.

“Trust me when I say Takashi Shirogane would do anything to protect our Prince, and going to such extremes as gaining the trust of the Galra by _pretending_ to be one of them is nobel of him. I believe that it is because he worked for them that he was ever able to save our Prince,” she declared, and her harsh voice and stare was enough to put the councilman back in his place. 

She passed the pommel over to Shiro, who grasped it and held it without the need of a glove. He extended his arm and circled around for everyone to see, avoiding the commander in the process. In the end, he passed it back to her, but she denied the offer. 

“I wish I could say this weapon is meant to be in our own hands, but it isn’t. I have my people searching for ways our soldiers would be able to wield one without blacksmithing gloves,” she told him. The almost-compliment hardly seemed to cheer him up. He frowned at her as he sheathed it. “But I, as well as everyone else here, would like to know the details of your detainment.”

“How did you obtain the sword?” another one asked.

“And what of our King? Where is he now?”

A rise started out of them all, demanding the whereabouts of the King, his condition, why he didn’t return the rightful ruler to Terra. Pidge stared at them all in disgust—only to realize that she, herself, wanted to know. She wanted to know the question they _weren’t_ asking: Where was the _real_ Prince? But she knew Shiro didn’t have the answers.

A loud, nearly deafening clap sounded above Pidge’s right ear. The room quieted in an instant, and the effect was the equivalent to trained hunting dogs, looking to their master for instruction. Altea’s lord, Lance, stood solemn beside the judgement chair, and stared harshly at them all—hardly the joker he’d been at dinner.

“ _Enough_ ,” he ordered. “This is a knight whom you’ve all sworn to be honest and upstanding before this point. What changed your minds? The man was tortured beyond belief—and suddenly he wishes to side with his captors? If you want to know his story, let him fucking speak his mind without the lot of you yammering all about.” 

Silence ensued, and it weighed heavy over Pidge as she debated the next course of action. How _would_ they react? Would they be unsatisfied with Shiro’s story? Would they turn to Pidge and demand the same questions? No, she knew her answer to that. It would be the same as her knight’s—that her memory was foggy, she couldn’t recall the events preceding the war at the redwood forest.

The commander laid a hand on Shiro’s shoulder before taking her leave of the cross. Before speaking, he looked up at Pidge, and in the firelight of the fixtures on the walls, his eyes were cast in shadows. He looked positively lethal.

“I wish I had a mind to speak of… these events,” he started, dropping his gaze to the side. “But I’m afraid every memory of my capture has been wiped clean. All I can recall are… _notions_ of emotions, but it’s enough to know that whatever they’ve done to me was without my consent, and I had no say in any of it. It was akin to brainwashing, and turning perfectly capable people into machines. I’m ashamed to say I was one of them—”

“That isn’t true,” Pidge blurted out, voice coarse and closing in on her when all eyes turned to her. _Shit—that wasn’t supposed to happen_ , she cursed, realizing her error instantly when she saw through Shiro’s. He couldn’t possibly be telling the truth—he never mentioned anything about _brainwashing_. “You can’t admit to being one of them when you saved me,” she countered. “You couldn’t have just been one of their pawns.”

“How else could it be explained,” he questioned, talking directly to her. “I fought _with_ them—”

“Against your will,” she stressed, clinging onto the armrests out of fury. “You never would have consciously _killed_ your own people.”

A murmur broke out amongst the councilmen, and Lance silenced them not a moment later. Shiro’s jaw was set, and so it seemed, his mind as well. “It doesn’t matter whether or not I was conscious of it—how could I trust myself when—”

“That’s enough,” Lance interrupted, and Pidge practically seethed up at him, causing him to take a step to the side. “Shirogane, it appears as though you ask for punishment.”

“I do.” 

Pidge leapt from her seat and shouted, “How could you say that? Look at yourself! We all see you have gone through—” she jolted to a stop when a hand pulled her back. She was on the verge of leaping over her desk just to slap the sense into the knight. Lance reeled her back to her place, and she became aware of the fact that if anyone could find her brother and father, it was Shiro. It was in his head somewhere, and she couldn’t just let him lock it up again, and again, and again—

“Perhaps you don’t remember where your scars come from,” Lance spoke up, “but you clearly have some indication of the wrongs you’ve done. I can’t say you can atone for crimes you barely remember, so if it pleases the Prince, we can come to an agreement elsewhere. Regardless of what you’ve done these past few years, you _saved_ not only yourself, but the Prince as well. That is a feat in and of itself.”

“We cannot trust a man who does not trust himself,” one of the men muttered. “Perhaps he did save the Prince, but that doesn’t mean we should keep him in the position he left with.” He paused to sneer down at Shiro, and shook a knobby finger down at him as he spat, “If anything, the Prince was captured on this man’s watch.”

“We hardly have enough information to go off of,” another spoke. “We know what he was capable of _before_ sending him with our King and the Prince, and that was with his certain loyalty. And now… I can hardly fathom what the Galra could accomplish by changing the very flesh and bone of Shirogane.”

“I should like to know the specifics of that arm of his. Perhaps we could learn a thing or two about those homicidal monsters on the battlefield.” Pidge cringed at this, recalling how savagely Shiro tore through her comrades, and the terror that beat in her chest upon seeing him towering over her. _Monster was an accurate description_ , she mused, and instantly felt guilty for thinking it.

“My Prince,” a voice murmured beside her. Standing, she was at his shoulders, staring at his chest. She turned her gaze up to meet his, and found his eyebrows knitted together in concern. “As I said before, I do not want you to reflect on your time with the Galra, sir, and I still don’t, but given what you know—”

“I don’t know anything,” she answered, fists shaking at her sides as she uttered both lies and truth, “but I don’t think… Shiro is actively evil. He isn’t _with_ them, or _like_ them in any way.”

“But you believe he is capable of it?” he asked.

“Everyone is capable of it,” she answered, and her stare turned to a glare. “But that doesn’t mean we should inflict evil upon the head of my king’s guard.”

After surveying her expression once more, Lance clapped his hands again, and silenced the room. He swept his arm over to Pidge, who took hold of the edge of her desk and struggled to speak for a moment. _All these eyes on me—the eyes of people I loath_. She wished she hadn’t been born to a family obligated to stand with strangers.

“From what I recall,” she started, “the battle Takashi Shirogane and I escaped from favored the Galra—a portion of the redwoods could possibly be theirs now. Losing me as a captive will provide another initiative to engage war closer to the capital. I’ve been informed that little has been done to resurrect a replacement ruler—bringing in an _advisor_ does not bypass the necessity for a leader the people follow, unless you planned on broadcasting this man as the face of Terra.” She pointed sparingly at Lance, who pursed his lips and attempted not to look offended. 

“The truth is that Shiro and I are targets for the Galra to attack, and they have reason to fear us. Retrograde amnesia, when temporary, only lasts so long. When our memories recover, we _will_ be a threat. Until that time, I believe we are only impeding on the system you seem to have arranged during our absence,” Pidge said, her words chosen from memory throughout her time alone in Matthew’s room. It was how Matthew would have sounded, though perhaps he would not have chosen the same decision as her.

_He would have wanted to stay, but I can’t do that. Not when I’m essentially on my own, without him or father to assist_ , she thought, and swallowed the strain in the back of her throat. It only seemed to grow.

“You believe it’s temporary, sir?” they asked, standing to address her. “How can you be sure.”

“I can’t, but… there are some indicators,” she confessed. Just as she had obsessively tracked each of her mother’s movements at the dinner table, she tracked Shiro from the second she saw the Galra steel in his hand. “He found me on the battlefield. I think I may have diverged from the group I was with—held in a camp that our people infiltrated and cut lose the prisoners. But in the middle of war it… really didn’t make much sense. I can remember most of what happen when the people around me were cut down, wounded or otherwise by both sides—it didn’t exactly matter so much as when I fought away from the thick of things and was pursued by—”

“By me,” Shiro added. “I attacked you.”

“You didn’t know who I was,” Pidge countered. “But the second he saw my face he came to and the reason I think his memory in particular is temporarily blocked is because he knew _exactly_ where the people in his group were—the Galra who followed him into battle. Perhaps his memory will work backwards from the point he saw me, back to when he was first captured.”

“But that was hardly even a second before he became conscious,” someone said. “Everything he knew from the Galra up until that point—it would be impossible to forget it all in a second, and only remember the last, say, five minutes of it.”

“The mind is a difficult thing to tamper with,” Lance corrected, stepping up beside Pidge as he spoke, “It’s perhaps the greatest mystery _I_ know of, that’s for certain. If Matthew’s analysis and diagnosis is correct, then it’s crucial we have them out of the Galra’s reach. They are our greatest asset as of late, and we can’t risk losing them again.”

“And what do we tell the people? That their Prince has returned and abandoned them anyways?” 

“We cannot keep his return from them, and it wouldn’t be a matter of risking the information from leaking to the Galra. It’s likely they already know of Prince Matthew and Shirogane’s escape. It would be a matter of improving the outlook on the war. The Prince has returned! The people would be thrilled just to know he’s alive and well!”

Pidge felt Lance’s attention on her then, and she hesitantly whispered to him, “What are your thoughts?”

“My thoughts? Do you suddenly trust my judgement now?” he questioned with that giddy smirk she loathed the see. Her expression must have said as much, because he laughed. “Tell the people,” he told her, and after a moment, she clapped, and the room went silent under her command. 

  


_Lance @thecouncil: Protect them._


	5. Getting It Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which homesickness ensues, and Shiro rises as Squad Father.

Following the meeting, Lance just about hugged the crap out of Hunk—the poor guy might have been used to his lord’s over-affection, but he certainly wasn’t used to having the air knocked out of him. Lance stepped back with a laugh, and stretched his arms out wide. “Take a wild guess as to why I’m so damn happy,” he demanded.

“Well, I take it that it had something to do with the meeting today,” Hunk commented, and glanced behind them where he vaguely saw Prince Matthew and Takashi Shirogane disappear around the corner. He saw them exit looking just as stoically grim as they did earlier that day arriving at the palace. They hardly seemed happy to be anywhere, and that really tore at Hunk’s heartstrings. Certainly after being away for so long, they would be glad to return home? Was it logical to assume that?

“It was hardly what I was expecting,” Lance began, “ _Better_ than what I was expecting. You know, I think that lad is warming up to me. Friendship on the horizon? _Love?_ Oh, that’s even better. That’s classic.”

“That isn’t wise,” Hunk drawled, and furrowed his brows at the thought of such a disastrous thing happening. _Lance_ , the imbecile, would start a _civil_ war back in Altea if he ever considered marrying. All those hearts, broken. Hunk didn’t want to think of the number of people whom he would offer his shoulder for a thorough crying session. _Unbelievable_. 

He had a hard enough time reeling his lord in from the servants who tended to their rooms. And now that a prince was in the palace— _God_ , he didn’t even want to think about it. The man’s appetite was unquenchable.

“Forbidden love is always my favorite. The library here is _full_ of them—would you read to me again tomorrow? Hm? You play the damsel in distress perfectly.”

“And not foreplay,” Hunk grumbled, thankful that his lord was civil enough to know his boundaries where Hunk was concerned. 

Lance almost choked on his laugh before bursting out into giggles. “Ah! That was a good one.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“In all honesty I’m not sure if I’d be able to achieve this goal before we leave— _after_ we leave, well, that’s another story— _speaking of_ , I forgot to mention what we’ve all come to believe would never happen. Pack your bags, Hunk! We are officially going home! Who knew the three years—almost four—would go by so fast? Have you been counting the days? I surely have.”

Lance babbled on as Hunk paused several paces behind. He floundered for a moment before his words finally broke free. “Wait, wait—stop for a minute. Home as in _here_ home? Or home as in Altea? Because I don’t think—”

“Altea!” he exclaimed, and not a second later Hunk’s entire visage transformed to accommodate genuine happiness he hadn’t felt in quite some time. A smile spread across his lips, and he laughed giddily, lunging at Lance and crushing him in a bear-hug. 

Hunk swung Lance around as if the man didn’t weigh a thing. They were both laughing by the time they both to their footing, discussing the details when it became obvious to them that the councilmen _clearly_ hadn’t taken into account the fact that the both of them had been there for several years now. It would take more than just the night to pack _everything_ up.

“Shit, you have to help me compact an _entire_ walk in close into the back of a carriage,” Lance declared, gesturing with his hands as if a diagram would help map out the process.

Hunk was about to exclaim the _minor_ detail being that the size of his gear had increased tenfold since the start of their stay. He came with the basics, and had to expand upon that based on Terra regulations and now… _What would he do with his armor?_ And all of the supplies and books he obtained from the architects here to bring back to Altea! 

_At least some part of me believed that returning was possible_ , Hunk thought, but clearly that half of him didn’t consider how much it would take to transport all of this.

He shut his mouth and groaned. “All right, fine, so long as you assist me later.”

“What was that? I didn’t quite hear you,” Lance called out, already rushing ahead to avoid being guilt-tripped into carrying tons of metal gear to the stables.

Hunk always regretted setting foot into Lance’s room. It was his least favorite spot in all of the palace, being that it didn’t smell all that grand, and half the time the servants avoided cleaning it in fear of being roped into an hour-long conversation about topics the servants here weren’t meant to broach—namely sex. It wasn’t necessarily to illicit sex _from_ the servants, but just to talk about it as if it were a casual topic to be had over a meal. It was why Hunk normally ate with the other guardsmen, but on occasion Lance would avoid his favorite subject long enough to have a civilized meal with his _favorite_ of the guards. 

He was just thankful his lord didn’t bring up the subject to the Prince at dinner. He had plenty of interruptions to use that would divert Lance completely. The last thing they needed was for Lance to explain why the Prince gave him a black eye—it certainly wouldn’t have been the first time.

It was fair to say Hunk’s main concern was what sort of trouble his lord got into—but that was fair. It was exactly the reason his King assigned him to live in Terra with Lance. Lance’s common sense may have been lacking in terms of conversational pieces, but the man’s adept knowledge in all things concerning ruling served others well.

Hunk dispensed a rack of coats into the open space of Lance’s room. His lord was discussing with servants how everything should be folded and organized, and placed in the carriage. After removing everything from the closet, Hunk scratched his head and wondered who in the world ever owned so many clothes. 

“Uh, sir—”

“Yes, what is it.”

“Have you ever considered retiring the clothes you don’t use? It would make for more space in your carriage,” Hunk suggested, and experimentally removed a gown of sorts from the rack in front of him. “Do you really wear this?”

“It’s a sleeping gown! It flows nicely and lets everything air out,” Lance explained, snatching it up and staring at it a moment longer. He hummed to himself before sifting through the rack. 

Hunk took items from Lance’s hands and soon they had a mound of clothes laid out on the bed, untouched by the servants, and not being boxed away for transport. “What do you recommend we do with these?” Lance asked. “Toss them? No one’s going to wear them.”

“That’s wasteful, and if no one wears them, they can at least use the fabric,” Hunk declared. “Look—is this silk? You could make dozens of pocket squares out of this!”

“You mean— _recycling?_ ” He recoiled from the idea, and started walking away from Hunk as if suddenly his guard went mad. “Do whatever you want with them, I don’t give a shit.”

Hunk left the room with a handful of Lance’s clothes and wandered towards the servant’s wing where he knew the clothes were being taken inside at this time of day. It took him down a series of steps to outdoor square in which lines of fabrics were hung, and people milled about unclipping clothes from the ropes. He approached one of the girls and asked if they’d have any use for used clothes. 

She directed him to a man in simple uniforms, who showed him to a room where an elderly woman asked him to sort through the clothes and lay them out on the table for her. The both of them folded the clothes up and put them away amongst other fabrics. He left to fetch more. He cleaned out Lance’s unused pile in three cycles.

By that point, it was pitch black and the moon was beyond the horizon. When he returned to Lance’s room, the last servant was going through and removing a single suitcase from what used to be a floor _filled_ with them. Lance was sprawled out on the bed, coat hung off the bedpost, and undershirt partially unbuttoned. As Hunk sighed, Lance gave a snore that jolted him awake. He popped up and blinked, rubbing at his eye. “Is it over with?” he murmured. “Is it morning? Are we going home?”

“Not yet,” Hunk answered, and pushed him back onto the pillows. He took a quilt and draped it over Lance, who pulled it up past his chin and turned to the side.

“Wake me up when we’re about to leave,” he told Hunk. 

“Sure. Goodnight.”

“‘Night.”

  


  


“I told you I didn’t want to travel with them,” the Princess seethed, standing firmly at the steps overseeing Altea’s advisor as he stepped into his carriage and his guardsmen shut the door. “I hardly think it would be fun ‘camping’ with that man.”

“Don’t concern yourself with it,” Shiro told her. It was worthwhile to spend time with Lance and his guard Hunk, he thought, considering they would be the only two familiar individuals in the Altean capital. Besides, wasn’t traveling and camping the best way to get to know a person?

“I bet you an ounce of silver that Lance will beg us to stop at a hostel,” Pidge said, holding out her hand to him. He looked at it and frowned.

“Betting is childish.”

“I’m practically fifteen.”

“That still means you’re fourteen.”

“Are you going to shake my hand on it or what?” she snapped. With a sigh, he reached across and grabbed her hand. It was smaller than his, though given the state of his perfected arm, her’s seemed to be more calloused. 

The guardsmen in charge of keeping Lance in his place approached the both of them, mounting several steps to reach them. “Prince Matthew,” Hunk started, giving a short bow, “Will you take the carriage or go by horseback?”

Shiro knew the answer before Pidge even blurted it out. Of course she wouldn’t want to ride with Lance—she was clear on how close she dared to get to him. However, that meeting with the council surely seemed to brighten her impression of Lance. She didn’t sneer at him when he waved to her through the carriage window.

He glanced around him and at the soldiers and guards accompanying them to Altea. Off to the side, he noticed a number of them in discussion with Commander Harris, who, noticing his attention on her, waved him closer. He dismissed himself from Pidge’s side and greeted his commander with a simple, “How are things?”

“Fine, thank you,” she answered. She gestured with her hand for the soldiers to leave before reaching into her coat. “I have a message for you to give the King—it has the council signatures and my seal to ensure your safety there.”

“You mean the Prince?” he corrected as he accepted the letter.

“No, that goes without saying,” she said. “Should they think your time with the Galra—and possessing that sword—is untrustworthy, this will clear it up. Keep it safe, and report to me with any news on your recovering your memory. We—but namely myself—are counting on you.” She smiled as best she could at him, but it came out as a grimace. She clasped his shoulder and gave him a hardy shake. “Take care, Shirogane.”

“It was nice seeing you again—farewell.” 

When he turned back to the stairs, he found Pidge missing, and momentary panic seized him. He started towards the steps in search of her, and, after looking around the lot of horses, became tempted to call everyone to attention. Just as he paced up the row of horses, a familiar redhead popped up from behind one, and tossed her leg over the saddle. 

_Dear God, I nearly had a heart attack_ , Shiro thought, grasping his chest as he hurried to her horse, and the soldier that aided her. “P—Prince Matthew,” he started, grabbing hold of the reigns rather forcefully from the soldier. He dismissed the man with a glare, before turning to look up at Pidge. “ _Don’t_ run off like that.”

“What? I was just mounting my horse. What were _you_ doing?” she retorted. “Making googly-eyes at Commander Harris?” 

He grimaced at the thought, and snapped at her to be quiet, though she continued laughing. Instead of pressing the matter, he left to his horse, mounted it, and reared it back beside Pidge’s. He snatched the reigns out of her hand and hooked them to a rope. “If I see this rope go taunt at _any_ point in this trip, you’re riding with me.”

“I _am_ riding with you. We’re right next to each other.”

“No, I mean you’ll be stuck on this horse right here—the one I’m on at this moment,” he explained, and received a pout in response. “Do _not_ give me that look. I’ve had enough of it from—” he paused, and blinked momentarily at the near mistake he had. It was no surprise the look reminded him of Matthew—they were just a year apart, and looked exactly the same given that their hair was now approximately the same length. For the sake of acting, Pidge’s experience in the Garrison helped, and added muscle to her bones that otherwise wouldn’t have showed. 

Pidge’s jaw tightened, and he saw the edge of it twitch as she turned away. “So puppy-eyes don’t work on you? That’s good to know,” she murmured, and promptly added, “I won’t stray.”

She was true to this through most of the journey that day. They left when the sun was still low in the sky, and provided a soothing cool breeze over their shoulders where the ocean stretched out wide across the horizon. The yellow-light of the morning gradually saturated the green fields and the mud-soaked paths between them. Shiro kept his attention shifting in all directions—every ten minutes he looked behind and counted the number of soldiers there, and the number never fluctuated.

He kept Pidge’s leash held loosely over the horn of his saddle. His body swayed to the beat of his steed’s hooves clapping against the dirt; his hips would dip right, then left, and his shoulders would follow. It was momentously relaxing after recovering from his initial worries. However, it didn’t change the fact that horseback riding was uncomfortable, and made him ache in places he didn’t wish to discuss.

At midday they stopped, and took their break on the outcrops of rocky cliff faces overlooking the ocean. Shiro unhooked Pidge’s leash and dismounted, and proceeded to assist her in her descent. By that point, Lance already rose from the carriage, talked to Hunk, and taken a seat on a blanket several feet back from the cliff. 

“You should talk with him,” Shiro suggested, looking down at Pidge as she prepared for a rebuttal. “Lance and Hunk will be your only friends in Altea for starters.”

“I already have a friend. I don’t need more,” she told him, and upon observing his raised eyebrows, she flushed. He would have laughed if the subject didn’t seem to be so sensitive. “I don’t need to befriend Lance.”

“It would be the wise thing to do. It would put you in favor of the King, who so far has had every intention in helping us. Do you wish to change that?” 

He observed Pidge scowl and kick at the dirt. “ _No_ ,” she grumbled, and at last threw down her arms and walked off. As he watched her go, he took the reigns of their horses and led them to the grass where they fed. Pidge approached the blanket on which Lance sat, and after gaining his attention, took a seat. 

_She’s been alone all this time_ , Shiro mused. _She hardly knows how to make friends—or_ have _them, anyway_. His chest ached again, and it wasn’t for fear of the Princess’ sudden disappearance, but for fear of her happiness. He couldn’t be the one leading her deeper into this chasm she dug, having lost her brother and father, and then her mother. Having staged her own death to escape the pressures of royal society. Having flung herself straight into war. Perhaps now he could start digging her out, if only she was willing to help herself.

  


_Shiro @Pidge: I shall be your temporary father._

_Pidge @Shiro: Shiro no._

_Shiro @Pidge: Yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pidge's leash was inspired by [this](http://gurlskylark.tumblr.com/post/148504832045/edorazzi-i-havent-watched-voltron-yet-but-this) post on Tumblr. Hope ya like the chapter! Currently building on character dynamics, as you can see from the amount of feels in this one.
> 
> [x](http://gurlskylark.tumblr.com/) | [x](http://gurlskylark.tumblr.com/post/148678960362/gurlskylark-a-lovely-medieval-knight-shiro)


	6. Mug of Mead

Lance wasn’t as terrible as his jokes made him out to be. Pidge spent at least half an hour with him out by the cliff, and tried not to think about the one she dove off of to stage her death. That had been a tricky maneuver, seeing as stepping off wasn’t seen as diving. She’d practiced the jump several times before the event, and it required quite a bit of forward momentum. The trick was to have the people far enough away not to see her body below the cliff edge, where she then bent forward and kicked her legs up, and dove straight into the wintry sea…

Though from that height—if her form hadn’t been perfect, it would have been like crashing straight into the icy rocks nearby.

But that wasn’t the case that afternoon. It was summer, nearly autumn, and the air wasn’t quite so brisk. Lance was busy keeping her in conversation to keep her attention off the memories of ocean cliffs. One comment about Altea, and never having visited it, was enough to spark excitement in the man. 

“You talk about Altea as if…” Pidge started, and couldn’t seem to find the right words.

“As I would describe a lover,” he said. 

“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

“Of course you were. Altea has all the soft curves of a lovely person, and while enticing and welcoming, it is well protected on the insides. It takes a particular sort of mind to understand how complex it is, and to love even its less-glamorous features,” Lance explained, and she asked for him to expand on the “less-glamorous” parts. “Ah, well, every kingdom has their faults, and it isn’t uncommon to see overpopulation as being a factor. Many of the larger cities are filled with people of all races, and the fact that every person in Altea is unique is something to appreciate. Since the start of the war, our population has increased by a third.”

“That’s astounding.”

“It is. I just… wish it didn’t have to be this way,” he confessed. “Many of the people who come to us had homes and families at one time, but the Galra took it from them. They shouldn’t be forced to start over in unknown countries—or to _have_ to adapt in such extreme ways.”

Pidge watched him forlornly before diverting her gaze back to the soldiers and guards. Hunk sat not too far away, putting away the meal, and she searched for Shiro. He wasn’t far, tending to the horses. “After being gone so long, it must feel strange to have to adapt back to your old life,” Lance spoke up, and it took a moment for her to understand that he was talking about _her_ and not _Shiro_.

“Oh, yes, but it’s comforting being back—if not stressful,” she said. “I’m just thankful that… we _came_ back.”

“It’s a miracle. One of the best I’ve seen since coming to Terra,” he confessed, and when she looked back at him, his smile was subdued. “I should thank you. I’ve missed home terribly, and while I love Terra—my heart is in Altea.”

She grinned and laughed lightly. “Don’t mention it. My entire purpose of escaping was to make sure you made it home safely.”

It took a moment, but her sarcasm reached him, and he threw his head back and laughed. He fell back on the blanket, and glanced behind them. “Did you hear that one, Hunk?”

“I did. It was a good one,” Hunk answered, which made both Lance and Pidge laugh. 

“I’m glad I could amuse the both of you, but shouldn’t we be moving on?” she said, and began rising to her feet. She brushed off her knees and bum as Lance rose. 

“Would you want to sit in the carriage, sir? It’s quite comfy—more so than sitting on a blanket in the grass,” he suggested, following Pidge away from the cliffside. She glanced briefly at the ocean before turning away from it and walking towards Shiro.

“No thank you. I’ve seen and talked to you more than I anticipated already,” she confessed, waving her hand at him without turning back.

After spending so many hours on horseback, Pidge became annoyed that she hadn’t taken another bath while in Terra. She spent some of this time picking at dried blood and dirt under her nails, and wondering if there were spots she missed that were filthy with the innards of war. She spent several nights in the wilderness with Shiro, and at every riverbed she laid, completely clothed, on the pebbles just to try and rinse off the filth. If any stranger walked past, they’d wonder if both Pidge and Shiro were corpses. 

At least she finally had a set of clean clothes.

Before evening fully arrived, Lance emerged from the carriage and rode horseback for a ways, and it wasn’t until it was too late that Pidge realized he was purposefully distracting those in the lead to slow our pace. By the time it was dark, they were passing through a village equipped with—

“A tavern?” Shiro questioned when Hunk guiltily confessed it to the both of them.

“Yes—we’ve been here once or twice on other trips. It’s safe and rather clean, being a tavern and all,” Hunk explained, glancing sparingly at Pidge as if worrying she’d disapprove of a drink or two. 

“I could go for some mead—or perhaps an ale,” she confessed. “I’ve been on horseback all day—how else am I going to sleep being as sore as I am?”

“Good, then, I’ll have the soldiers set up camp north of here, off the main road. If you’d prefer to wait in the tavern for the rest of us, that would be fine, sir,” Hunk said, reeling his horse back and starting off when Pidge agreed to it. Shiro was frowning at her as she steered her horse after Lance, and dismounted just outside the warm glow emitting from the windows.

“I wouldn’t recommend making a complete fool of yourself a day before another long ride,” Shiro told her.

“Don’t lecture me now. You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to,” she said as she hooked the reigns around a post and left to fetch a bin of water for it. Shiro followed her to do the same, and Lance already disappeared into the bar with an energetic greeting to the people inside. 

She knew the knight wouldn’t even consider touching a glass that night, considering how uptight he’d been since they left the palace. In fact, he barely relaxed _in_ the palace—what would make him comfortable about being out in the open when the Galra were invading our territory that very instant? That wouldn’t stop Pidge, or the fact that he found it irresponsible for a child to be drinking ale. 

“I’m almost fifteen,” she hissed to him as they entered the door. 

He closed the door behind them as he said, “Your point?” Just as she was about to respond with something snarky, Lance’s voice called them over with an ecstatic wave. 

Pidge approached, and for a moment completely forgot that she was meant to be someone _other_ than herself. It caused her to falter before hesitantly claiming her seat. Matthew drank, didn’t he? _Small helpings of wine under parental supervision_ , she mused with a groan. He hardly seemed like the sort to make a mess of himself at a tavern, but if Lance was willing to do so, then so would she. 

“You remember me don’t you?” he called to the waitress, and after a moment of staring at him, her expression lightened.

“‘Course I do! What’ll it be for you and your friends?” she asked, stepping up to lean her hand on the table. She looked at the three of them, and after assessing the lot, Lance grabbed her attention again.

“Drinks on me, because we have a special guest tonight,” he declared, about to reel Pidge in for an announcement. She pushed his hand away and shook her head—now was _not_ the time to be telling people the Prince was back. “This… just so happens to be a _translator_ for the council in the capital. Uh-huh, six languages this one knows.”

_Are you kidding me?_ Pidge groaned. She complete forgot the fact that Matthew was a genius when it came to languages—of _course_ Lance would know that. And here Pidge was, barely juggling half that. 

“ _Ooh_ , that’s really something else, kid—languages are tough,” the waitress said, and smirked at Pidge. “Give me somethin’ unique and the first drink’s free.”

_Well, that isn’t too bad_ , she mused, and spouted off every day phrases in the eastern Altean dialect—the harder of the two. It wasn’t the common language she would hear in the capital with Lance, and knowing it seemed to impress the man, as well as the waitress. It was enough to convince the woman Pidge was an translator in the capital, and to get herself a free drink.

She determined to get something warm that might distract her from the pains of sitting and standing and all of the above. It felt as if she spent the entire day doing the splits. 

When the waitress gave it to her, Pidge thanked the woman in the Galra tongue, which she giggled at. It was hard to ignore the fact that Shiro nearly choked when he heard it—she admitted it was the wrong language to pick, but it was the only other one she knew besides her native tongue and the Altean dialect. When the waitress left, she nudged Shiro’s arm and said, “Sorry about that. I say it’s Lance’s fault.”

“What? Why me!” Lance cried out. “I just saved your ass—got you a free drink and all. One day you’ll have to repay me for this. I _will_ hold it over you.”

“Sure you will,” Pidge said sarcastically. “I have plenty to hold over you.”

Lance pouted his lips and turned back to his drink. Shiro sighed and said, “Play nice.” He sat across from Pidge, which put her in the perfect position for him to see her roll her eyes. 

It’d been several months since her last drink, but this one smelled heavenly—better than when she and the other mates at the Garrison went to get drinks. The cadets sure knew how to pack it all in to one night, even _with_ training the next day. Though, she was always grand at limiting herself when around those men. She never knew _what_ she would say to make them think she was anyone other than Pidge Gunderson.

“Won’t you get something to drink, Shiro?” Lance asked. “A legend such as yourself shouldn’t be sober this night.”

“I prefer to be.” Shiro hardly reacted when Lance threw up his arms and gawked at him. “I can’t protect the Prince if my mind is impaired.”

Lance dropped his arms and took a gulp of his drink before saying, “So I guess you’re the designated rider tonight.” Pidge didn’t have to look at Lance’s face to know the man was smirking.

“You are referring to horseback riding aren’t you?” Shiro said, raising an eyebrow. _Unamused, as per usual_ , Pidge thought, smirking.

She glanced at Lance in time to see him bite his lip and say, “I’m referring to whatever you want.” And unfortunately for Lance, at that same moment the doors were inviting in the soldiers, and Hunk was there to smack him upside the head. 

“Respect the legend, _God_ ,” Hunk complained, and lumbered over to crash on the bench next to Shiro. “This is what I have to put up with on a regular basis. I mean, it’s entertaining, don’t get me wrong.”

Lance rubbed the back of his head and grumbled at Hunk to _Lay off him_ before taking another sip from his mug. Pidge recommended the spiced mead to Hunk, who took the recommendation. They smiled over the rims of their drinks, and the heavenly smell that came from them. The large helpings were enough to make Pidge giddy at the end of her first, and her second was enough to make her laugh at any one of Lance’s terrible jokes, and try to cheer Shiro up by reaching across the table and squeezing his cheek. He slapped her hand away with a gruff, “Please don’t involve me in this, sir.”

Lance stretched his arms wide and yawned over to Pidge, drawling, “So I guess you haven’t had much of a love life these past few years, huh? Being in captivity and all…”

Pidge snorted and nearly choked when the drink went up her nose. “ _Pff_ , no, I haven’t. Didn’t exactly have time fer it y’know? That’s kind of a luxury when ya think about it.”

He was trailing his fingers across her arm, and it made her conscious mind nauseous. At the moment, though, she felt hysterical with laughter. His breath was all over the side of her face when he said, “Well, if you ever need company at night…”

“ _Lance_ ,” Shiro hissed from across the table.

Pidge eyed Lance thoughtfully and after remembering her entire situation, asked, “So you _are_ gay?”

The man leaned back with a hand against the bench, and rolled his eyes hard enough to turn his entire head. “Well… I wouldn’t say _that_ exactly. I’m more about _personality_ than _gender_. About the person, as opposed to what’s between their legs, if ya know what I’m saying,” he said, and unsuccessfully stifled a giggle when Pidge snorted. “What do you say, hm?”

“I’ll _pass_ on that one, but the thought was nice,” she said. “Having a love life isn’t exactly a priority right now—”

“It’s a _luxury_ , I got it, I got it,” Lance drawled, somewhat forlorn as he leant his elbow against the table and sighed. Then, he groaned and said, “I can’t possibly wait another day to be home again! I miss everyone. My mum… my brothers and sisters…”

“As do I,” Hunk sighed, smiling softly. He glanced over at Pidge with another sheepish grin. “We wrote to them every month. My friend works at the castle, and I write to her often—”

“Significant other,” Lance mumbled sadly into his drink.

“Mm… Not really,” Hunk corrected, furrowing his eyebrows at his lord. Lance sighed again, sounding more depressed by the second. With a groaned, Hunk rolled his head on his shoulders and confronted Pidge with a straight face and a sharp hand. “Shay and I are _just friends_. Don’t let Lance convince you otherwise.”

“At least you _have_ a significant other!” Lance went on, and Hunk leaned back muttering, “Unbelievable,” under his breath. “At least you two can make up your _goddamn_ minds.”

“You _knew_ you were going to be gone for—how long? Oh, that’s right, we were under the impression that we’d be in Terra for possibly the rest of our lives so how do you think _that_ long-distance relationship would turn out?” Hunk countered, and as the two began bickering over Lance’s unfortunate love life and lack-thereof, Pidge sunk in her chair and tried to drown them out by chugging the rest of her mug. 

Those two were at it for another minute before Lance’s voice grew shaky. It felt like someone punched a hole through Pidge’s chest and wrenched her heart out when she saw his eyes brim with tears. The instant they spilled over, Hunk stopped talking and hurried out of his seat. “Shit—shit, shit, I’m sorry man, I shouldn’t have brought it up,” he apologized. 

“Yeah, you imbecile,” Lance sniffed, rubbing the heel of his palms against his eyes. Hunk sat next to him and took him into his big-bear embrace, and Pidge looked worriedly at Shiro. The knight shrugged, so Pidge awkwardly reached a hand over and patted it on Lance’s back. 

“Perhaps that’s enough drinking for tonight,” Shiro suggested, and Hunk agreed, mainly because he started crying, too.

  


_Shiro @himself: Do I always have to be the sensible one around here?_

_Pidge: Too much emotion for me aaahhh._


	7. Altean Capital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return is both a blessing and a curse for Lance, and provides a shocking revelation to Shiro on all that occurred during his capture with the Galra.

Altea’s walls were just several miles ahead of them, and already seemed as massive as the foothills they stood on. The formation they were on was a flat outcrop, washed over in wildflowers and tall, grassy leaves. The wind picked up and nearly pushed the Princess straight off the edge, if Shiro hadn’t been there to grab onto the back of her cloak. 

“It will take another hour or two to make it to the wall,” a soldier informed him.

“Really? It doesn’t seem that far to me,” Pidge said, and proceeded to squint at the wall curiously. “I never imagined it would be that tall.”

 _Neither did I_ , Shiro thought, and turned to look back at where Hunk was overseeing Lance, who laid out on a blanket as if to sunbathe, but actually to push back his nausea. Both nights out here had been spent babysitting Lance and Pidge—though Shiro didn’t mind it. But he was certainly concerned about Pidge’s alcohol intake. Did the girl usually drink like this at the Garrison? Her hangovers hardly seemed to show, unlike Lance. Unless the lord was more prone to complaining about it.

It was the first glimpse Shiro had of the fabled wall Pidge mentioned—the _Barrier_. It certainly was what Pidge said it was, though, her own image of it failed to grasp the sheer enormity of it. And they weren’t even all that _close_ to it yet. For now, it looked as if someone brought the horizon up several inches from its normal position for _hundreds of miles_ east and west. The ground outside of it was black with trees, but the field ahead of them was green and lush.

Shiro’s hand smoothed over the pommel his commander provided him with. She had a blacksmith cap off the tang with solid iron, which was then wrapped in a regular pommel and fitted with a guard. Of course, the product of such extreme tailoring would be temporary, in the end. When they rode on horseback, he distracted himself by noticing how the guard was already bending and melding under the blade’s ferocity. 

“Let’s keep moving,” Shiro announced, turning away from the drop-off and heading for the horses on the track. The road ahead was muddy, and would progressively get worse if they remained out there with this sort of wind whipping around them. It was a signal for a massive storm, and they would try to escape it before it whipped through the refugee camps. 

“Do you suppose I could lay here for a minute longer?” Lance asked from the ground. Shiro looked pointedly at Hunk, who sighed and proceeded to nudge Lance up off the ground. Once he was on his feet, Lance lurched and held a hand to his mouth before relaxing back. “False alarm—I feel quite better now actually,” he declared, and returned to the carriage.

Shiro noted that Pidge waddled here and there from the discomfort of riding for so long, and felt guilty for putting her through this. When he could, he prevented Prince Matthew from riding excessively, and if Pidge wanted to make a good impression on the Altean King, she would have to walk _normally_ , not with strained muscles.

Before the Princess could mount her horse again, Shiro stopped her, placing his hand on her saddle. She nearly glared at him, and before she could tell him off, he said, “I would recommend you ride in the carriage until we reach the Barrier. I can see you are already saddle sore.”

“So what?” she retorted, preparing to remount. 

“ _So_ , we do not want you waddling into the throne room tomorrow. You have to make an effort, even if you don’t particularly _care_ whether or not you do. You are obligated to represent Terra here,” he countered, whispering it so as to avoid being overheard. 

“And being saddle sore would suddenly make the King turn us away?” she retorted, and scoffed. Thankfully, though, she stepped away from the horse. “Whatever. Suit yourself,” she said as she turned towards the carriage in which Lance was in.

Shiro guided Pidge’s horse alongside his as they descended through the foothills and carried onwards through fields tended and watched over by people who looked up as they passed. Shiro avoided looking them in the eye, or anywhere other than directly ahead where he could keep his eye on the carriage. There was a small window in the back—partially obscured by suitcases—but enough space to see the top of Lance’s head when he turned to the space next to him and laughed. 

_It’d be good for the Princess to trust someone here_ , Shiro tried unsuccessfully to justify his reasoning. Why was he so intent on making friends _for_ her? _So that maybe I’m not the only one who knows the secret she’s carrying_.

Shiro didn’t want to think of the consequences that would come. Terra would soon believe the Prince was safe and out of harm’s way, but _that simply wasn’t true_. The real Prince was still suffering somewhere, perhaps, with the Galra, in the hand of the devil—a pawn to be played with in the war. But if they hadn’t used the Prince yet, when would they? How would the Galra react to the news of some pseudo-Prince returning to Terra?

 _They’ll turn everyone against Princess Katherine_ , he thought, and the idea made his hands clench around the reigns. _They’ll hate her for tricking them_.

It might ruin Katherine if anyone were to hear the truth. If _Lance_ were to know? Oh, how terrible that would be! Shiro knew just from speaking with Hunk that the Altean advisor could hardly hold a secret like that safe. He was meant to be a messenger owl for the King—the King would know in an instant. 

But that didn’t change the fact that Katherine was the rightful heir. Though, her previous actions would be seen as terrible, possibly enough to wreck her integrity in Terra’s eyes. Shiro wilted under the thought that they wouldn’t accept Katherine as their Queen, because she consciously abandoned them once before—now twice.

Shiro vaguely remembered the conversation he had with her father once, the one where he was informed of her father’s wishes for Katherine. King Samuel wanted his daughter to lead with an advisor if anything were to happen to him or his son. “Though I worry,” the King once said, “that my Katie does not have a political mind. Her logic isn’t meant for leading—so much as it is for collaborating. She would do well in a council with the same mindset as herself, but that simply isn’t the case.”

 _She wasn’t meant to be alone_ , Shiro thought. Being alone led her to the Garrison. _She needs a friend, even if it is a man like Lance_.

As they grew closer to the Barrier, the horizon became speckled with structures and buildings Shiro assumed came from the camps outside the gates. It wasn’t until they approached the first that he realized that they were still several miles from the Barrier, and there were _hundreds_ , maybe _thousands_ of these buildings across the landscape outside the walls. Where were the trees he saw from the foothills?

These were the trees. These buildings were the structures he saw, creating a blanket of dark shadows outside the Barrier. A crushing feeling collapsed on his shoulders, and the string that connected him to positivity vanished. This was what the world amounted to while he worked for the Galra. _He_ caused this…

The streets they traveled down were disjointed and disorganized seeing as city guidelines weren’t enforced. It appeared as though they just kept building, disregarding where and how it was done. Some homes were behind those on the streets, and beyond that even more. These ones were connected with worn dirt trails on which children looked up from their games to watch the soldiers pass through.

They’d been in the camps outside the Barrier for roughly ten minutes before the carriage in front of Shiro slowed, and the door opened. Lance was the first to step out, and was instantly told to return by Hunk. “Please, sir—you don’t have to—” Hunk started, only to be silenced by Lance’s sharp hand pointing towards him.

“Be quiet. I’m riding on horseback now,” he retorted, and looked silently around their surroundings, and at the curtains that closed under his gaze, open doors shut.

Pidge hopped out after him, and Shiro found it useless to argue, now that Lance was out in the open. Pidge mounted the horse beside Shiro, and solemnly followed along with the soldiers and guards.

The Prince’s people continued onwards through the camps, connecting between one grid to the other, shifting ever so slowly towards the wall. Shiro carefully watched as Lance’s normally bright countenance melted into grief, and he curved over his reigns with such a tight grip, it was no wonder he hadn’t torn them apart. Hunk was no better off. 

“I haven’t… been this far north for three years,” he confessed to Shiro, “I had no idea there were this many people.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Shiro answered. _It’s mine_. _The Galra did this. I was once apart of them_. He stared down at his battle arm, and its flawless surface hard and daunting in the face of the iron pommel at his side. _I still am_ …

“I remember when this first started,” Hunk said, mournfully. “When Lance and I first left, the camps were perhaps a fourth of this size. Before that, there weren’t buildings like this. People used anything they brought with them—canopies, covered wagons, carriages… But _this?_ This is unbelievable.”

Shiro hummed his agreement. They passed into the shadow of the barrier, and a waft of cold air clung to their clothes. A shiver passed down Shiro’s spine, and the outlook from there became bleaker.

The closer they came to the wall, the denser the buildings became. They were older than the newer portion of the camp, and fabricated out of the materials on hand. They walked through a marketplace where shoppers parted in the way of the hooves that came prancing through. People of all races, genders, backgrounds… they gathered here and stared at Shiro as they passed. _No_ , they weren’t looking at him. It just felt like they already knew about him. It felt like they knew more than he did, not only about himself, but the hardships the war brought to regions of Terra, and countries already taken over.

The Barrier’s entrance hardly seemed like a beautiful, glorious thing after passing through the refugee camps. As they waited for clearance, Shiro almost wished he could stay on this side, just to avoid forgetting. He didn’t want to forget how Terra suffered, and he certainly didn’t want to picture Altea as this magnificent afterlife. The truth of the matter was this: Altea wasn’t untouched by the war, but the Barrier certainly made it feel like it was.

He couldn’t forget this like he did his entire existence with the Galra.

“Are you okay?” Shiro blinked, glancing briefly down at Pidge before shaking his head and stammering for a moment.

“I—I… I am, thank you for your concern. Sir,” he added, and reached out to squeeze her shoulder. “I am fine.” _I think_.

  


  


Lance held on to the last fragment of his self-control up until the point they were at the capital the next morning. He spent the entire night seething over the outlook on the refugee camp. _What have they been doing all this time?_ He was hardly the military guru that the council needed for war—he was the one to set the mind games that kept the _people_ in order. And yet he couldn’t help Altea control the refugee influx from Terra. _He couldn’t help them_. He never thought he could feel like such a failure, even though training for being an advisor was all about the prospect of it. He _would_ fail. And he has. He failed the people who needed him most—those chewed up by the war and spat out at his nation’s borders. 

And what has Altea done? _What have they done?_

His previous anxieties about returning home began to mount on him, stacking on top of the toil of emotion rolling in his blood. How could he confront his King thinking these things? It wasn’t his place anymore. It just _wasn’t his place_. 

The second the carriage stopped in front of the castle, Lance was off his horse—he tended to ride horseback when he was either _furious_ or _ridiculously excited_ , even with the torrential downpour. It was a mixture of both that sent him in a whirlwind up the stairs with Hunk chasing after him to “Calm down” and “Take a second to think before you—”

Sopping wet with rain, Lance was at the doors snapping at the guards to let him in when Hunk snatched him by the arm and reeled him back. His scowl was enough to put his guard off, taking a step back. Hunk’s hair was flattened down with moisture as he said, “Listen, I know you are angry with the situation as much as I am—I had no idea it was this bad. But that’s no reason to blame him or—”

“It’s _every_ reason to blame him,” Lance hissed. “These people need _protection_ and we can’t give it to them unless we—”

“We what? Lance? What are you planning on suggesting to him?” Hunk questioned, staring down at Lance with an unblinking gaze. His lord folded his arms, and glared past hooded brows and a mess of short, travel-worn brunette hair. When he didn’t answer, and instead turned away, Hunk continued: “I don’t think—now hear me out—I do not think you should see the King yet. At least take a day to clean up and eat something _substantial_ for once. I mean, _salad_? Are you _kidding me_? That’s all you had for dinner yesterday.”

Lance scoffed, and hated to admit it, but Hunk was right. At last he rolled his eyes and said, “Fine, I’ll raise hell tomorrow.”

“No you won’t.”

“Ha, yes I will. You really crack me up,” Lance laughed as he snapped his fingers at his guard. Hunk couldn’t help but smile, and Lance figured it was because they were just a hair shy of burning down the throne room in the name of Lance’s fury. Instead, the young lord shouted to one of the guards to fetch an umbrella before whirling back around and starting out the door to shout down to the entourage. “ _Prince Matthew!_ Where are you! I must show you around!”

Vaguely he heard the lad shout back, “I’m coming! Hold your horses.”

Lance chuckled as he clapped Hunk on the back and said, “I don’t even have a horse on me.”

Once the Prince was up the steps with Lance’s favorite legend at his side, an umbrella over their heads, he snatched the young lad’s arm up in his and proceeded to take a wide sweep of the foyer. He introduced Prince Matthew to Lance’s favorite oil canvas in that area of the castle. “It’s approximately three-times the height of Hunk—we’ve measured it before.”

“That was several years ago. I was still growing, sir,” Hunk added discretely to the Prince, but Lance still heard it, and promptly ignored it.

The servants who saw them in were handing them towels to mop up the moisture on their ruined clothes, and as the Prince scrubbed his hair, he asked, “Who is it in the painting?”

The both of them craned their necks back to look up past the slick boots barely reaching the tops of their heads. The gilded frame was enough to marvel at, and the painting itself was a beauty.

“This is the late Queen. She was truly something else, so I’ve heard. She had this portrait taken in her armor when she was barely twenty—and directly saw to it that it be placed here for ambassadors and other visitors to be intimidated by,” Lance explained, and proceeded to declare that the feat took two months and cleaned out the paint supply within half a mile from the castle.

“Color me intimidated,” the Prince murmured, a smile on his face as he glimpsed at Lance next. “How will you manage to top this on your tour?”

“Trust me, I have _several_ tricks up my sleeve,” Lance declared. 

He steered the Prince down several other halls then, avoiding the throne room, or any of the places he recalled any of his usual comrades frequenting. Instead, they meandered the back halls, Hunk noting changes here and there—a new painting at the end of the hall, a new vase on that table—a cabinet? Since when? The Prince was fascinated by the ancient books they found in one of the cabinets, and proceeded to ask:

“Do you have any scholars here, by chance? As in, oh… the engineers of your weaponry? Of the Barrier?” The question threw Lance off kilter. He couldn’t recall whether or not Prince Matthew was interested in machinery and architecture, but Lance was certain he had that information lying around somewhere.

He hummed thoughtfully, and Hunk was the first to answer, “Yes, actually. There’s a library attached to this building—if you recall the glass dome from outside—”

“Yes! I do, I thought it was beautiful.”

“Yes—that’s the library. It is one of my favorite places to stay—I have spent hours reading there,” he explained, stealing the Prince away from Lance’s arms in a passionate discussion of the people at the library. “I have studied with the architects of the newest addition to the castle. The blueprints should still be around there somewhere…”

The Prince was so ecstatic, he jumped ahead and shouted, “What are we waiting for! Let’s go!”

“I haven’t seen Prince Matthew this excited in a long while,” Shiro commented to Lance, who hummed in agreement. “It’s kind of you to show him around. He’s been rather difficult with you since we returned.”

Lance grinned and brushed the compliment off with a shrug, “Well, it’s a group effort. He wouldn’t be here without you.”

The knight offered the slightest of smiles, and it was enough to crinkle that scar of his. Lance looked past it, and to the guilt in Shiro’s eyes because he’d seen that look before. Namely on himself this past night, staring back at him through a hostel mirror without an ounce of mercy. He laid a hand on the knight’s arm, and suggested they go to the kitchens. “Prince Matthew will be fine with Hunk, trust me. The library is perhaps one of the most guarded rooms in the castle, next to the King’s quarters. Besides, I don’t know about you, but I am _hun-gry_.”

“Hunk told you to eat breakfast this morning.”

“Which I _didn’t_ because I was not _hungry_. That’s logical, isn’t it?” Lance said, motioning for Shiro to follow down a separate hall. He called after Hunk that he was showing Shiro the armory— _Lies to stop him from coming with. Food trumps scholars in_ that _man’s books_ , Lance thought with a laugh. He could already see out of the corner of his eye as Shiro gave him a disapproving look. That seemed to be the knight’s only default expression.

“Should we not report to the King?” Shiro asked.

“Pff, no, we’ll do that later. I just want to see how home has changed since we left. At least the kitchen is where I last left it,” Lance commented, rubbing his hands together menacingly as the smell of food began hinting the air. 

The second he arrived at the threshold of the kitchen doors, Lance raised his arms and declared, “Guess who’s back!” His voice held the opposite effect of his clap with the council, it seemed, because in an instant chaos ensued, and the workers all shouted their hellos and “Welcome home!”, along with “My lord, you look so well!” He beamed at them all, and hugged his way through the kitchen accepting food here and there, and tugging Shiro along behind him with a hand clamped tight on his wrist.

“This is delicious! Ooh, what’s this roux for? I _love_ rice tart! Can I have a spoonful of that, please?” he inquired here and there, encouraging Shiro along the way. The knight seemed too embarrassed to ask at first, and by the time they were comfortably suited in the midst of company, already stuffed with samples, Shiro was smiling. 

One of the chefs came forward to hug Lance in welcome, and kissed his cheeks before pulling Shiro down to her level and doing the same. “You both should come back soon—I shall have a feast waiting for you!”

“That’s very kind of you,” Shiro commented, grinning ear-to-ear.

“Food is the way to this one’s heart,” Lance said, pointing to the knight as the chef laughed and instantly grabbed a loaf of homemade bread and sent Shiro away with it. They left the kitchen then out the back way, waving farewell to everyone. “She adores you,” Lance told him.

“She adores you as well. What does that say for the both of us?” Shiro said, holding up the bread and sniffing it through the bag. “It’s… _spicy_?”

“ _Ooh_ , that bread is pure, edible gold. No, really, it’s my favorite—she must have remembered after all these years,” Lance concluded, sniffing it himself before handing it back. “Take it. I’ll get fat off of it anyway.”

“Fair enough. That certainly is something for you to worry about.” The knight said it so bluntly that Lance nearly missed the sarcasm. 

He threw his head back and laughed. “You remind me of the Prince! His insults are similar.”

Shiro chuckled, dangling the bag at his side. Lance continued to talk about the kitchen staff, what sorts of families they came from. He showed the knight where the servant quarters were, and talked with a few of them to discover where the Prince and Shiro would be staying. They started up in that direction, circling up to the second floor and following a stone railing that overlooked a section of the first floor. 

“Most of the rooms that royalty uses have conjoined rooms with whomever they choose—guards, maids, valets… you name it. It seems they’ve put the two of you in one of those settings. You will, of course, have your own washroom, closet, that sort—there will just be an extra door connecting to the Prince’s room. Unfortunately, they don’t lock—so you’ll just have to be mindful of each other’s privacy.” At this, Lance wriggled his eyebrows at Shiro, and he had to laugh at the knight’s expression. The man hardly seemed to have a dirty mind.

“Why doesn’t the door have a lock on it?” he asked.

“Because of the guard situation. If there were to be an emergency of any kind, you wouldn’t have to break down doors to get to the Prince. Everything else has locks, down to the closet where you store your clothes, to the cabinet in the washroom,” Lance explained, and proceeded to note the landmarks the servants pointed out. The room was locked—by the servants who brought the luggage in—so Lance went to fetch a guard to unlock it. 

Shiro was waiting when he returned with the key, as was another figure—a _familiar_ figure. Lance nearly tripped at the sight of her silver hair, and the feeling seemed to be mutual. The girl swept up her skirts in an instant, and raced to Lance in a blur of red and white. “Lance! You’ve come back!” she shouted, eliciting a laugh as she tossed her arms around his neck. 

“Allura!” he cried back, clutching her around her waist. Her momentum sent them both spinning, and dizzy when they came to a stop. 

“Miss me much?” Lance smirked, “I see you’re glad to be back in my arms.”

In an instant she pushed him back and smacked him in the shoulder. “Enough of that. When did you return? Why did you not come see me sooner?” she demanded, before recalling that a guest was with them. She glanced at Shiro and gestured to him. “Won’t you introduce us?”

Blushing, Lance pulled Allura towards Shiro and motioned to the both of them. “Shiro, this is Allura, the Admiral of the Altean fleet. Allura, this is Takashi Shirogane, head of the Prince’s guard.”

“Admiral,” Shiro repeated, seeming a bit stunned. The response he received was one of vexation from Allura. The knight instantly saluted her, and she seemed satisfied with it. “Forgive me—I’m used to people in uniform.”

“There’s nothing wrong with appearing unassuming while also looking put together,” Allura told him, patting at the folds of her plum-red dress. “I like to surprise strangers. It is amusing.”

“Evidently. You succeeded in surprising me,” Shiro commented. As the exchange occurred, Lance grinned at the two of them with his hands clasped beneath his chin. Neither of them noticed him. “What brings you this way?”

“Nothing in particular. I was hunting down this one before I stumbled across you,” she said, motioning to Lance. Only then did she notice him, and slap him in the arm for it. The force would surely leave a bruise. “You’re a sly thing, you know that? I heard that your people showed up earlier, but I heard nothing of where you went. _Nothing_. You do realize people think you just ran off? And by people I mean—”

“To be fair the entire kitchen staff knows I’m here,” Lance corrected. “If you don’t believe me, smell my breath.”

“That’s just an excuse to kiss me on the cheek—I could see that from a mile away,” she countered, hands on her hips and her accusing, harsh expression striking him where his heart overflowed. He missed her so damn much. He missed her snark, and her constant concern. “ _Don’t_ dally another second. Go to the throne room. I will escort Shiro wherever he needs to go.”

“No—I was going to—”

“ _Lance_ ,” she hissed. “What did I just say?” Sometimes those fierce eyes were enough to paralyze a man.

Lance tensed before sighing, resigning. “No dallying…” he droned. This entire excursion with the Prince and Shiro was specifically _to_ dally. And now…

He said his farewells to Shiro and Allura before walking off, long fingers clasped in front of him to keep from fidgeting. _Dear Lord give me strength_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Drop me a comment or whatever and let me know what you think :)
> 
> Also, here are some art links that I enjoy:  
> [x](http://gurlskylark.tumblr.com/) | [x](http://gurlskylark.tumblr.com/post/148835500720/starrycove-some-twatter-doodles-%EF%BE%89-%E3%83%AE-%EF%BE%89%EF%BE%9F)


	8. Stay In Your Lane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Allura and Coran make their appearances, and the notorious Keith takes the show probably wearing a red cape and lookin' like Robin Hood.

Lance’s memories of approaching the camps came upon him in a tidal wave that overflowed his homesick heart. He couldn’t imagine forgiving his King for _this_ —this city of lost people, stripped of their homes. It dawned on him that the kids he saw in those streets may have called them home. Perhaps they never lived anywhere else…

 _Don’t bring it up_ , Lance hissed to himself, pacing away from the door, and the guards that stared ahead like mannequins. _Hunk told you_ specifically _not to see him until tomorrow_. An hour or two was certainly not enough time to forget.

But he didn’t want to forget. There were problems he simply couldn’t set aside. He wanted to help—but how could he help? This was out of his territory. It wouldn’t be wise to set foot on land he knew wasn’t his. Lance had the evidence, but he knew his King would have more… he was well aware of the problem at the borders. He _had_ to be.

Suddenly the door to the throne room creaked open, echoing across the hall to where he paced. He’d been summoned when he hadn’t even announced himself to the guards yet. _I’m not ready—I’m not ready_ , Lance shrieked inside, but started forward anyway. 

The second Lance slipped through the door, the man who fetched him left. The door shut and resonated through the empty room. Not even the throne was occupied—until Lance remembered the King rarely sat there for casual chats. He much preferred the plant life sitting in tall, elaborate pots behind it, illuminated by massive, foggy windows.

Lance’s footsteps were deafening as he walked across the wide expanse. His eyes were trained on his King’s broad red coat, and realized too late that he was predatory. He was angry. He was _furious_ —so much so that he couldn’t wipe it from his face when his King finally turned.

“That goddamn mullet is getting out of hand,” Lance hissed. “Also, you look like—”

“A demon from hell. You’ve used that one before.” His voice was clipped, sharp eyes drifting across Lance’s expression. “You look like you have something to say to me.”

“Keith—” he started, and saying his name at _last_ was almost… foreign. It was enough to make Lance forget he was home. This was home and yet… “I really shouldn’t talk to you yet. There’s a lot on my mind.”

Keith scowled at him as he reached forward and pulled Lance’s chin forward to keep his eyes ahead. He stared a moment longer before dropping his hand. “Hunk told you that, didn’t he? Out with it then. What? Are you afraid you’ll breathe fire the second you talk?”

“Yes, something along those lines,” Lance snapped, his voice spiking instantly. He’d forgotten how hollow this room felt when he was angry. “God _damn_ this vaulted ceiling! _Fuck_!” He screamed again just for good measure, poised to kick a nearby pillar.

“You’ll break your toe if you do that, you piece of shit.”

Lance turned on him with an accusing finger, shaking it at him as he spat out, “Fuck you. Tell me how much you know about the situation at the borders.”

Keith’s eyebrows furrowed together, casting shadows over his eyes. “Are you referring to the refugees?”

“‘Am I referring to the refu—’ Of _course_ I’m referring to the refugees. The last I saw of it was when Hunk and I _left_ Altea. Coming in is a completely different matter,” Lance all but hissed. “I’ve never—It isn’t _right_ to keep all those people out there.”

“Seeing as you saw the camps,” Keith started, level voice pissing Lance off more and more by the second. “Then you must have noticed the towns you passed through—or should I say cities? Considering that term relates to population, which is getting out of control as it is. You must have noticed how as soon as you entered, those fields? The crops? Are nearly all in Terra’s region. You were with the council there, you must have heard how much we depend on them for food imports to keep up with the numbers.”

Slowly, Keith was in front of Lance again, challenging in height and menacing in his stare. It was a familiar stance and expression, but this conversation certainly wasn’t. 

“The _problem_ with barricading ourselves off is that we create nearly permanent borders. The idea of expanding is inconvenient at this point when we plan for _protection_. It becomes harder to protect those outside the walls if we take back Galra territory around us for the sake of providing places to live for the people at our gates,” Keith explained. 

“Who cares if it’s _harder?_ If it’s _inconvenient?_ This entire _war_ is inconvenient! Don’t you see?” Lance exclaimed, exasperated. “I hate that there are people just beyond the Barrier that need help we _can’t give them_!”

Overwhelmed and wayworn, Lance’s exasperated breaths turned to panic. “I-I hate being away from Altea, I can’t go back—I can’t—”

Lance’s arms went up to his face, but Keith promptly pulled them back down, and hugged Lance around his midsection. Everything collapsed inside Lance, and the hurt and relief of returning melted into tears. After a moment, he wrapped his arms around Keith’s shoulders and stayed there, trying to remember what it felt like before the war. 

Keith rubbed his hands up and down Lance’s back, and the action gradually calmed him. Eventually, Keith spoke up in a whisper, “I won’t send you back.”

Hastily, Lance rubbed the tears from his cheeks before pulling away to see Keith clearly. “That wouldn’t make sense. I have been there for three—almost four years now. Sending someone new would just—”

“You literally just said you didn't want to go back. I was just respecting your wishes.”

“Yes, but they aren’t logical.”

“I don’t care. You are not going back,” Keith insisted, sneering as he did so. “I’m doing you a _favor_.”

Lance squirmed a bit and tried to push Keith away by the shoulders. “You aren’t _listening to me_! Let me fuckin’—Let me go!” he shouted at last, jabbing a finger at Keith’s chest. “ _You_ were the one to send me away in the _first place_. You can’t take that back now, not when I have already established my place with the council there.”

“I’ll send Coran to take your place,” he explained, and just as Lance was about to argue it as the worst idea ever, an angry voice interrupted them, storming across the room.

“No! No, no, no. While I hate to be the voice of reason here, I simply cannot let you do this.” Lance groaned, dropping his head onto his palm as their King muttered, “Unbelievable,” under his breath.

“How long have you been spying on us, Coran?” Keith demanded, glaring at the fire-headed ginger as he passed the throne, shaking his hand at the both of them. Lance hardly found himself thrilled to see his superior again, at least enough to greet him with a hug. Perhaps those formalities would come as soon as Coran would _stop spying on them_.

 _Nothing’s changed_ , Lance mused, distressed as Coran grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him away from the King.

“Long enough to hear you plan on sending me to Terra,” Coran said, a hand on his hip as he glared at the both of them. “Allura would have a cow if she heard the two of you bickering just now.”

“That doesn’t sound pleasant,” Lance murmured, pouting at Coran who still had his wrist in a vice grip.

“I _told you_ to stop hiding around in the throne room when I mean to have _private discussions_ with people,” Keith countered. 

“It’s part of my job to make sure you do not make rash decisions like this,” Coran retorted. “And besides, spying _is_ one of the tasks I am best known for. You said so yourself—‘It comes in handy’.”

“ _Coran_ ,” Keith growled out threateningly, fists clenched at his sides. “It was just a _suggestion—_ ”

Lance felt compelled to leave, which added to his guilt all the more. Before working in Terra, he never would have left Keith in this situation and now… it wasn’t his place. And Coran seemed to know that. Lance was just a distraction—putting terrible ideas into Keith’s head that might cause even more problems in the future. 

Lance often thought about the day Keith discussed the probability of sending him away to Terra. It’d been a perfectly fine day until it became clear that Lance would only… get in the way of things. He played with the idea that Coran was the one to suggest it, but Hunk put that to rest. Hunk was with them, when Allura, Coran, and himself where there, convincing Keith that a relationship with one of his advisors was not advised, to say the least. 

“You should not have insisted Lance see you today,” Coran told Keith. His King was fuming, but against all odds, he didn’t reprimand Coran for the bit of information. “Allura told me you did so.”

“Of course she did,” Keith spat. “I don’t want to hear about it. Get out.”

The redheaded advisor didn’t argue, and began urging Lance to follow. He regretted looking back at Keith as they left the throne room, because it just left a sour taste in his mouth. The worst of it was when Lance began plotting, _How do I fix this_? 

“You can’t fix everything, Lance,” Coran said, startling Lance out of his thoughts. Did he say it out loud? “You just need to give it some time. That, and the problems with the Barrier. We knew there would be consequences in building it, but we did it anyway to protect the people we love. We cannot protect everyone.”

“I know that, but we could at least—” Lance stumbled over his words as Coran gave him a silencing look. “I won’t bring it up again.”

“It is hard, isn’t it?” he thought aloud, placing an arm around Lance’s shoulders. “It’s enough to make me want an ale. What do you say?”

The thought of alcohol made Lance’s stomach twist. “I’ve drunk enough these past few nights. Thanks for the offer though.”

  


  


Pidge never felt this surge of utter, irrevocable love before. The effect was so overwhelming, all she could manage was to steady herself on the ground where, at least, she felt like it wouldn’t carry her away into the clouds overhead. Five floors above them. Through the glass dome. To the storm awaiting her with open arms… Perhaps then she might find the time to spend an eternity in this library.

“I can’t say I’ve ever done this before,” Hunk spoke up from behind her. She tilted her head back, and caught a glimpse of that round nose and black mess of hair, stringy from the storm they escaped earlier that day. 

“You have never laid on the ground here before?” Pidge asked, and the guard shook his head. She was surprised, considering that was her first instinct the second she entered the library. The reason being that she could spend an hour or so studying the mechanical mirrors twisting around from floor to floor, shooting streams of light crisscrossing over the air above them. The source? It was a globe of light near the center, encircled in metal gears and glass. Channels of lights splayed from it, illuminating every corner, every crevice of this five-floor library. 

After a while, it hurt her eyes to stare at it.

“Where would you like to go first? Name a subject—any subject, and I’ll take you there,” Hunk told her. The question made her chest seize up, and wondered if this was what it felt like to be surrounded by so much knowledge that it felt limitless. 

She thought for a moment before shaking her head. “I’m… not sure. Is there… anything to do with gunpowder?”

She heard her companion shift, and found him peering down at her from overhead with knitted brows. “Gunpowder? Where did you hear of it?”

“I… studied it a bit. But I would like to know more about its use as a propellant as opposed to explosives in mining,” Pidge stammered, reminding herself that the Garrison wasn’t included in Prince Matthew’s backstory.

“So, it’s use in cannons?” Hunk reiterated, and she shrugged. Anything would do. 

Hunk sat forward and hummed for a moment as Pidge plied herself off the ground and sat alongside him. He looked about the library, studying the floors, until finally snapping his fingers and declaring he knew where to go. He assisted Pidge as she rose to her feet, and she proceeded to follow him up several flights of stairs. The stairs were unusual and large, built in nooks within the library—behind bookshelves where they wouldn’t obscure the view. 

They emerged on the third floor, where Pidge marked a sign written in the common Altean dialect. It declared that this floor held books varying from blacksmithing, woodwork, metallurgy, as well as other subjects in between. 

Pidge stood in awe as Hunk sifted through the cubbies stacked with literature so ancient, some were in scrolls and uncut books. She plucked one after the other off their shelves just to see what they were made of until Hunk told her to watch what she touched. “We keep the books that are prone to disintegrating in freezing temperatures, but that doesn’t mean these ones aren’t fragile,” he warned.

“Oh, sorry. I won’t touch anything.”

At last, they came to a shelf full of volumes and posters illustrating the uses of fire in war. It took a while, but they sifted through the cubbies until Pidge at last shouted in excitement. _Linstock_ , she mused, her grin increasing by the second. _So they use this on cannons here_ …

“You’ve found it!” Hunk exclaimed, and instantly the both of them poured over the cannons in Altea. As they grabbed books and took them to the tables, Hunk explained the basics of where she would find cannons around the kingdom: “Naturally, cannon usage is on the sea. Our naval artillery is are main advantage should we engage in war with the Galra—or the other way around. We have an excellent Admiral here—in fact, the last letter correspondence I had with her she planned on staying here in the capital for a month… our times _should_ overlap.”

Pidge drew her attention up to him, her excitement piqued by the idea of a female Admiral. “You are friends with her?”

“Well I wouldn’t say—I mean—hm… I suppose you could say we are,” Hunk concluded, tapping his finger to his bottom lip thoughtfully. “In any case, Admiral Allura—that’s her name, you see—is a good friend of the royal family. In fact, when the late Queen’s husband passed away, there was a brief moment where Allura’s father and the Queen were quite close. As a result, our present King and the Admiral are of similar temperaments, seeing as they were practically raised together.”

“That’s interesting. I knew of the Queen’s relations with another man, but I never realized that man’s daughter turned out to be the Admiral here,” Pidge commented.

“Yes. Allura’s father, Alfor, was also a widower. Quite heartbreaking, actually—they say that his rival Zarkon of Galra was the one to end his wife’s life. That was preceding their current conquest, of course. There was a war many years ago, when Alfor was younger as was his wife. You might recall mention of it.”

“I do. No need to brush me up on that,” Pidge said, pursing her lips as she stared at the pages before her without hardly comprehending them. She thought only of the Galra, and their destructive leader.

After a while, Hunk asked her what interested her in the linstock. She shook her head and gathered her thoughts back together. “Well, you know the linstock is the wooden stick used to ignite the cannon from the touchhole. I’ve spent time thinking about how inconvenient it is, having to stand on the side of the cannon to light it to avoid the recoil.”

“Allura’s mentioned something like this before—something to do with aiming?”

“Yeah! It completely throws off the cannon’s direction then, and half the time we lose shots in low arches instead of the sort that go straight ahead—in your case it would just tumble into the ocean. On the battle field, it could just fall on empty ground between the two forces, or land closer to our own men than the enemy,” Pidge explained, and instantly had her hands on the projectile diagram of a navy cannon, and the interior of one.

“Are you suggesting we change it?”

“We remove the touchhole entirely,” Pidge said, and before Hunk could voice his concerns of that, she proceeded: “We wouldn’t use matches at all, or linstocks. Give me a pencil and some paper—it will look something like this… a mechanism that causes instantaneous friction, sparking the flame that would otherwise be handled manually.”

“This looks like it’s fitted for something smaller… and what would release the trigger here?”

“It’ll be attached to a cord that a single operator will use—aside from the powder boys bringing the gunpowder, and the other lads around. I imagine we could hook them all up to go at once, with the operator standing far enough behind to avoid the cannon’s recoil,” Pidge explained, and formed a haphazard comic of a cannon hooked to a string that the captain held in his or her hand, several yards behind the cannon.

“Amazing,” Hunk breathed, holding it up to the light. “And you came up with this on your own?”

“Well, yes, aside from getting the idea by hearing people complain about it,” Pidge explained, biting her lip as Hunk reviewed the pitch. “So… what do you think?”

He blew out a breath and laughed, saying, “I think we tell the Admiral.”

  


_Hunk @Pidge: You’re a goddamn genius_.

  


The day they arrived in Altea was utter bliss for Shiro. He hadn’t imagined a castle could have such a calming effect on him even with the peculiar company that came with it. Lance had been unimaginably hospitable to them, and it was sheer luck that he managed to befriend the _Admiral_ of all people. After Lance was summoned by the King, Allura determined that she would keep him company. It seemed that after all this time walking around the castle, Shiro barely saw any of it. 

“It’s said to be ten thousand years old—some parts of the castle, anyway,” Allura told him as they walked the sub level halls that weren’t nearly as dreary as he thought they might be. “They continued to build and rebuild where the original structure was. Below this is the storage of everything out of commission—books, furniture, trophies, art… It’s an _entire_ museum.”

“Are we allowed down there?” he asked.

She hummed thoughtfully, clasping her hands behind her back as if to feign innocence. “Well… I wouldn’t say _that_ exactly. But perhaps another time. I’ll have to plan it out, you see, and know who happens to be on guard that day. That bit is mostly my beloved friend Coran’s part. He has eyes and ears all across these halls, and assists in managing the security of them. Among other things.”

“The name sounds familiar.”

“Yes. He’s been around for some time now,” she confessed, and added, “As have I. But he’s a tad bit older. My uncle.”

“Ah, that explains it,” Shiro said, promptly realizing that he was smiling and the act seemed… strange. He couldn’t recall smiling like that—subconsciously, freely—since before… 

Suddenly Allura was laughing beside him. At once he frowned at her, and she stifled a smile. “Are you laughing at me?” he accused.

“I’m sorry. That was rude of me. You’ve been through… more than I can imagine. It’s incredible that you are so approachable, and easy to talk to,” she said to him. “I am friends with many veterans who are less conversational than yourself.”

“I think memory loss makes a difference on my outlook,” he said, his ordinary scowl returning. “It’s the reason I am here in the first place.” _Well,_ almost _entirely_ , he added to himself. Pidge was constantly on his mind at this point, and consciously thinking of her made him worry all the more. _God_ , he couldn’t _believe_ he left her with Hunk—just because Lance _said so_. Sure, he wanted the girl to make friends, but how could he let her do that when she wasn’t supervised?

“Is something wrong?” Allura’s voice coaxed him forward. He happened to stop in the middle of the staircase, and she was waiting at the top for him. 

As he returned to her side, he said, “Do you mind if we find P-Prince Matthew? I would love to talk more, but I should check up on him.”

Allura agreed with him, and raised her arm out to him. He glanced at it before hesitantly accepting it, and letting her lead him through the halls. She knew her way around better than _he_ did, anyway. 

They were just turning the corner to the main foyer when a stampede of footsteps came barreling towards them. Shiro pulled himself and Allura aside to avoid collision when the strangers careened around the corner, and he realized why that jabbering sounded familiar.

“Pidge!” he shouted, and instantly the small girl screeched to a halt and shouted back, “Shiro!”

“Allura!” The burly fellow by the name of Hunk leapt for the Admiral, who blinked in confusion, “Pidge?” 

“It’s a long story,” Pidge declared hastily, “one for another time.” 

Shiro broke away in time to avoid a group hug when Hunk and Allura reunited. She laughed and hugged the guard’s head close to her own, patting at his hair and asking him how he was. The man looked like a content kitten in Admiral Allura’s arms, and Shiro would have found it amusing had he not been focusing on how eager Pidge was for it to be over. He noted the number of books in her hands, and the scratch piece of paper dangling between her fingers. 

After Hunk and Allura were a sufficient several inches apart, Pidge reached over to nudge Hunk. The man gasped in surprise, and seemed to remember that the Prince was with them. “Oh, yes. Admiral Allura, this is the Prince from Terra, Matthew. Prince Matthew, Allura.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Allura said, holding out her hand before realizing that Pidge’s were full. “Never mind then. What have you got there?”

“We were just looking for you,” Pidge explained, and Shiro quirked an eyebrow at her. “It’s about something I’ve been… thinking about lately, and you might like to have a look.”

“I am sure I would. We could take this to the conference room—it’s very large and professional,” she said, adding an aside to Shiro. He smirked and quickly covered it with a cough behind his hand. Allura gathered everyone together for a walk to the fabled conference room, and it was enough time for Shiro to stand alongside Pidge for a brief moment.

He bent down to her level to whisper, “The name slip wasn’t on purpose.”

“Yes, well, it happens when one has three names,” she whispered back, her grin almost devilish as she jolted ahead to speak with Hunk about holding a book or two for her. It was the second time that day Shiro found himself smiling without meaning to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can(n)on or not can(n)on? Sounds a whole lot Hamlet to me (ALL OF THE LITERARY JOKES).
> 
> Let me know what you think of the chapter, and if you suppose the details on the cannon redesign don't add up. I did as much research as I could on them, and pretty much I've come up with the transition from linstocks to flintlocks (gunlocks) and pretty much skipped over the in-between phases because Pidge is such a genius apparently XD
> 
> Farewell! See you guys tomorrow!


	9. Caught Red-Handed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Klance fluff and Pidge angst.

“Lance,” Keith said, his knuckles hovering over the door. He tapped again. “Come on, Lance, open up. I know you’re in there—I checked with the guards.”

He tried again, but came up with nothing more than an inanimate door, and no one on the other side—at least, anyone who was willing to _talk_ to him. It infuriated him how difficult Lance could be, but he reminded himself that there was a reason for it that he was trying to ignore desperately. It gnawed at him just as much as it did the day he agreed to send Lance to Terra. Away from _him_.

With a sigh, he turned his back on the door and glared at the guard with him. The man pursed his lips and seemed to shrug, as if to say _he_ wasn’t going to be the one breaking the door down for Keith. Keith turned his harsh stare to the ground before stepping away down the hall. “Unless, you actually _want_ me to force the door open,” the guard said, both of them on the same track.

“No reason to. Thanks though.”

“Coran said we shouldn’t be talking.” Lance’s voice was quiet, as if he didn’t expect Keith to hear him, or even turn around at the sound of it. “Why did you come here?” His door was open just a smidgen, enough for Keith to see his normally ecstatic eyes dim.

“Coran makes _suggestions_. It doesn’t mean I have to follow what he says,” Keith argued, starting back to the door where Lance peered out. He gestured for the guard to give them space. “We used to argue like that before, and it was always about work. I do not want to talk about work with you, not if it means we have to scream at each other and… get upset.”

Keith tried to reach for Lance’s hand that was on the door, and wound up with a stern look. Lance closed the door a tad more, and rested his head against the edge of it. Keith tried to remember the last time Lance looked remotely happy around him—that was about a month before his official leave. “I feel like shit for earlier. It wasn’t my intention to make you upset,” Keith reiterated, dropping his gaze and staring down at his boots, and where they stood two feet away from Lance’s casual slippers. 

After a moment, Lance said, “So you admit you were wrong?”

“I didn’t _say that_ ,” Keith hissed, and instantly groaned at the outbreak. “I am apologizing to you—and I think it’d be best if we didn’t talk about our kingdom’s affairs right now. I just want to—” _Hold you right now_ , he wanted to say, but with the way Lance was looking at him now, he knew that wouldn’t be received positively.

Lance studied Keith skeptically before sneering, “Coran was right. I can’t even do my job when you are still smitten with me.”

The door was about to slam shut when Keith braced his hand on it and shouted back, “And what about you! I know for a _fact_ this isn’t one-sided.”

“Shut the damn door and _leave me alone!_ ” Keith recognized the hitch in Lance’s voice enough to sneak in through the door and shut it behind him. Lance didn’t seem to realize that Keith was in the room with him until he’d already hidden his face in his hands and released a shaky breath into them. 

Keith hurried across the familiar floor and nearly startled Lance into hitting him. Instead, the man just jumped in surprise and tried to turn away. He couldn’t stand to bear Lance crying again, and instinctively wrapped his arms around Lance and pressed their heads together. His hair wasn’t at all the same texture, or the smell of his freshly-washed skin. Three years seemed to be enough to change the man Keith thought he knew everything about.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Lance murmured, reaching his arms up between the both of them. He encircled them around Keith’s neck and buried his face against the black curls of hair at Keith’s shoulders. “I missed you so damn much I couldn’t stand it. For the longest time I convinced myself we weren’t even—we weren’t together, and that helped a bit, being away from you and all. I-I’m sorry I tried to forget—”

“Hey, hey, it’s fine,” Keith said. “I don’t care.”

“But I—”

“I don’t care,” he pressed, pulling his face back and urging Lance to look at him. They locked eyes for a minute, simply staring at one another before at last Keith asked, “Are you better now?”

“Yes, thanks,” he smiled. “I was wondering if you’ve seen my parents recently—or my siblings?”

The question was so casual, but it was enough to bring a smile to Keith’s expression. He laughed a little, and said, “They visit me every week. It’s become a regular thing, actually—we have lunch in the sitting room or courtyard while your sister Isabel takes painting classes.” His confession caused Lance to laugh, perhaps astonished that this was _normal_.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me—that’s great! I swear my mum mentioned something like that in a letter or two, but I thought she was pulling my leg,” Lance admitted, pursing his lips in thought. It was always intriguing the way Lance thought of his family, and Keith reveled in it because he hadn’t had his real family in quite some time now. But now, he was just thankful Coran was there to boss him around and keep him on track for being a successful King of Altea with the help of people like Allura and Lance and… he guessed Hunk counted. Hunk counted for making sure Keith remembered to eat—which was something he struggled with after Lance and Hunk left.

Lance was smiling to himself as he confessed he _did_ get a small postage with a miniature painting in it from Isabel when Keith leaned forward to press his lips against Lance’s. It was the briefest touch, one that he pulled away from for the sake of seeing Lance’s eyes close just long enough to be annoyed that Keith stopped. 

Lance’s eyes opened, just barely, and glowered at him for being a tease. “That was short. Are you suddenly shy after all these years? What—didn’t you kiss anyone else while I was gone?” Lance taunted, teasing _Keith_ in turn, enough to set a scowl on his face. 

Hands still around Lance’s midsection, Keith jerked their hips together and sneered in his face. “Who said I was _shy_ , don’t you know me? Also, you make it sound like _you_ made out with half the nation,” he said through gritted teeth, his lips curving into a smile when Lance fidgeted and donned a guilty expression, wide eyes looking elsewhere.

“Well, I wouldn’t say _half_ …” he droned, eyes slowly returning to Keith. In that span of time, he stared at the way Lance’s teeth set indentations in his lips. “It was more like a quarter of the palace staff.”

Keith’s hands gripped his hips then, saying, “That is _so_ like you.” He pushed Lance forward, catching those cheeky lips in a kiss that tripled the length of their first. 

They collided with the wall and broke apart with eager breaths mingling. Lance leant his head back against the wall and parted his mouth to Keith’s, his hand holding Keith by his jawline, as if to breath him in, and on the exhale… “Good God, I missed you.”

“Shut up and kiss me,” Keith demanded, though the second they locked lips again, they were both laughing. Lance linked his fingers through Keith’s hair, and smiled against his mouth until Keith hid himself in the crook of his neck and laughed like a goddamn idiot. They collapsed together on the floor, Lance against the wall with Keith between his legs, in hysterics over the hole in their hearts being filled. 

_He’s here. He’s fucking right here and I can’t believe—_ Keith pressed his forehead against Lance’s, and breathed him in. Lance may not have smelled the same, or felt the same, or _was_ the same as when Keith last saw him, but he was fine with that. He just couldn’t believe he ever thought sending Lance away was a good idea.

_I’m not letting him go again. I wouldn’t do that to him, or myself_. He was selfish, and he didn’t care. Not when he could kiss Lance, who was several inches from him, and not have to send letters hundreds of miles away.

  


  


“Where is the King?” Pidge asked, voice reverberating off the vaulted ceiling, the pillars rising around them, and the dome-like structure above the inlet in which the throne sat. The flags that hung between the pillars were variations of reds and blues, yellows and greens, and black seeing as the five regions of Altea were represented by those colors. They contrasted against the white walls and marble floors, and the white suit worn by the man who greeted them.

“He’ll be here in a moment,” the man explained, reaching out a hand to Pidge. “Call me Coran, you might have heard mention of me from Allura.”

“No,” she frowned.

“Yes, she told me of you,” Shiro contradicted, and discretely nudged Pidge’s side. “You work with the King, and you were Lance’s mentor.”

Coran shook both their hands with a ridiculous smile set underneath his shockingly orange mustache. Pidge tugged at her own hair and furrowed her eyebrows. “I do and I was, yes,” Coran said.

They were just approaching the steps to the throne when a door on the side opened, and a man who could only be the King approached. With him, Allura followed and smiled at Pidge and Shiro. She could hardly believe the woman was real—how could someone as experienced and powerful as Allura _agree_ with something Pidge said? 

_Allura likes my idea_. That alone was enough to make Pidge squeal with joy. She refrained from doing so at that moment, though, for the sake of looking sane.

The King had a stoney countenance, with sharp brows over his slim, narrow eyes. There was an edge about him that made it look as though, when he swept the tail of his coat to the side, he was about to strike Pidge with a sword. She scowled at him as he approached, mostly because she didn’t want him to think she wouldn’t fight back—she definitely would, even if she didn’t have a sword on her. 

His height seemed to double with the way he watched the both of them, Pidge and Shiro, and it took a moment for her to realize that he was the exact same height as Lance. She was certain she preferred Lance’s preppy attitude to this.

Calculating, the King seized Shiro up before dropping his gaze to Pidge. She stared back at him defiantly, clutching the papers in her hand to prevent fighting him right then and there. And _she_ was supposed to marry _him?_ Unbelievable. She could hardly stand to think about being stuck with such a scowl for the rest of her life.

“Matthew?” he asked her, folding his arms over his chest. 

“My King,” she answered, hating it, but bowing slightly. When she rose again, he was glaring right back at her.

“Come with me,” he demanded. “The rest of you, stay here—that means you too, Shirogane.” 

She could have screamed. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind when it came to sharing her ideas with him. She’d much prefer having Shiro there, and Allura, who knew what she was talking about. Instead, the King led her into an unoccupied room—the conference room where she first made her claim with Allura, Hunk, and Shiro.

She followed him in, and flinched internally when the door shut on itself. She waited as the King sat himself on the edge of the table, and scowled at her. She was starting to think that was his default expression. “Do you remember when you first met me?” he asked, arms still crossed.

Pidge’s heart leapt to her throat, and the result of it showed on her face, just enough for the King to see. He shook his head and looked away from her, but she leapt forward and said, “I do! I do—I-I was eight, and my father sent me here for a fortnight. I left early because I came down with a cold and my father was worried sick over me.”

He scoffed and said, “Any sibling would remember that. What are you doing here, Katherine?” 

She expected to be distraught in the face of truth slapping her sideways, but instead she was just _furious_. She bristled, shoulders bunching and papers crunching in her grasp. “I’m _not_ Katie—”

“ _Tell me_. Right now, or so help me I _will_ bring Coran and Allura here. Did Lance know about this?” he demanded, eyes blazing. 

Pidge set her jaw and sneered at him, stepping away. When she didn’t say anything for a minute, he slammed his hand on the table and cursed under his breath. He raked a hand through his long hair and released his fury with a harsh sigh. “Whatever the case, I will not let it leave this room. You have my word. Who else knows you are Katherine?”

She folded her arms crossly, and muttered, “Just Shiro knows. Have you heard his story?”

The King ran a hand down the side of his face and replied, “Something like it. Lance wrote to me and sent a messenger ahead of your group. He seems to be under the impression you are Prince Matthew. How could you do this, Katherine?”

“My name isn’t Katherine anymore,” she hissed at him. “ _Don’t_ call me that.”

“Then what do I call you if you aren’t Matthew either?” he snapped. “How far did you expect to go with this? We _need_ to know where the Prince is then if you aren’t him—did you _want_ everyone to abandon saving him?”

“ _No_ , that isn’t it,” she retorted. “I couldn’t do anything for him being Katherine. The council didn’t want me. They were going to—they were going to marry me off to _you_ and then what? Sit on the sidelines and wait for my family to come home?” 

“ _Yes_ , because that is what we have to do,” he said, “ _We_ aren’t the ones who will be going in after him. We facilitate what it takes to—”

“What, protect the people?” she snapped at him, shaking her papers at him. “Waiting for them to come to us? I’ve _fought with my people_ and being on our own turf is no advantage to us. We can’t play _fair anymore_.”

She practically threw the papers at him, and he caught them and unraveled them, looking pissed beyond believe. He stared down at the papers and the prototype sketch on the gridded lines. “What is this?” he asked.

“It’s a handgun. A miniaturized cannon, essentially. It uses a new mechanism of my own design called a flintlock, which would bypass the use of matches and automatically light the gunpowder,” she explained. “If it works, we can fight long-distance, and if the force is strong enough—as I plan to make it—it should cut straight through non-enchanted Galra armor.” 

The King was on his feet and laying it out on the table in and instant, staring at Pidge as if she just grew a second head. “How did you come up with this?”

“After I ‘committed suicide’,” she started, and received a glower in response, “I joined the Garrison under the persona of an orphan named Pidge Gunderson. I go by Pidge now, if I’m not pretending to be Matthew. I spent a lot of time looking to fix problems the cadets and higher-ups talked about. For one, the flintlock would also be fitted to cannons—but that would require replacing _all_ cannons on the Altean fleet and elsewhere on the Barrier. That being said, the flintlock could be wired to cords that one operator would pull and release the trigger—standing out of the kickback zone.”

“Yes, but the handguns…”

“Finger operated,” she explained. “And if the flintlock mechanism fails on the field, we have backup linstocks like we would with cannons.” Silence ensued, and she nibbled on her lip while the King shifted to the next sheaf of paper. He studied them quietly, and looked perpetually angry during the entire ordeal. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re an idiot for joining the Garrison,” he remarked, “but a goddamn genius for coming up with this. Who knows of this?”

“Hunk and I worked on it, and I pitched the idea to Allura yesterday. We came up with the handgun during that time. There are obviously some flaws that need to be worked out, such as preventing the spark from starting a fire elsewhere, or preventing it from blowing up in the first place, but—”

“We’ll jump that hurdle when we get there,” he said, his smirk on the edge of a smile. He clapped his hand on her shoulder and said, “I like your idea, Pidge.”

Pidge’s frown melted into a grin, the pride of being complimented by the _King_ , of all people, sent heat to her face. “Thank you, your Highness.”

She could have sworn he chuckled as he patted her on the back again and started walking away. He glanced briefly at her and said, “Please, call me Keith.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not apologize for making Keith king lol 
> 
> Kudos is appreciated though.


	10. Battle for Self-Control

“Who would you suggest we contact to put this gun in the works? Montgomery?” 

“No, this will take more than just a regular craftsmen,” Hunk countered. “My father was a blacksmith and before I joined the guardsmen, I used to apprentice under him. I could put together the barrel and any metal pieces needed.” His statement caused Pidge’s eyebrows to skyrocket, hardly believing the skill set this man possessed.

“Then I can supervise and figure out the measurements and calculations,” she suggested. “But it won’t be entirely metal. The barrel, mainly, but… after igniting the entire metal cavity will heat up. We have to keep the user’s hand off of the metal—other than the trigger.”

Admiral Allura peered over her shoulder, gently resting her hand over Pidge’s opposite arm. She hummed for a moment before saying, “Our cannons are mounted on wooden frames—perhaps polished wood could be fitted, and a handle made like so… with the trigger latch up above here.”

“Yes, but wouldn’t the wood heat up as well?”

“It isn’t perfect, but we could talk to a sorcery craftsmen here, and infuse it with an anti-flammable enchantment?” she suggested, her eyes alight with excitement as she looked to the King. “If we could finish the final product before I leave, I could have handguns distributed to all of my people, and training started to teach the soldiers.”

“That isn’t far off at all,” Keith commented, furrowing his brows underneath the mess of hair draped over his forehead. “Certainly not enough time for the _prototype_ to be made.”

“When is it?” Hunk demanded. “When do you leave?”

Allura pursed her lips and calculated the days in her head. “About a month from now.”

“A _month_?” Pidge blurted out, nearly forgetting her place. She stammered for a moment before regaining her composure. “And for mass-production? We’ll need to set up an industry for this, and hire people, train them, and—hopefully—keep this information from spilling out to the Galra even _after_ involving all the people required to make this possible.”

“When do you suppose they’ll be ready for use?” Allura demanded, and seemed to think a month was still a probable window for this entire situation to occur. Pidge shrunk a little under her height. “Will it be ready in a year, then?”

“We do not have time for a year,” Shiro said, his voice summoning the attention of all who was in the room. He cleared his throat, and after a moment, continued: “The Galra will be hunting the Prince and I as soon as the word gets out that… we are alive and with Terra and Altea—”

“But perhaps a year would give enough time for your amnesia to fade,” Pidge suggested, but could still find no reason to let this war go on for another year without technology like _this_ to combat the Galra’s close-range enchanted swords. It would be the perfect advantage—they needed it _soon_.

“The second they hear the two of you are _here_ ,” Coran started, laying his hands flat on the table, looking to Keith, “The Galra will be at our doors. They _will_ take the war to us and while our Barrier will hold them off, a war in Altea would be devastating.”

“The casualties would be through the roof if they attacked our cities,” Keith commented, brushing his hand over his mouth. Suddenly, his finger was pointing in _her_ direction, and Pidge wondered why the hell that was. “When we had a chat, you suggested we take the war to them. Is this what that’s about? This is your way to trigger our aggression against the Galra.”

The man sure knew how to read her mind, considering it was exactly what was in her head at that moment. Knowing that Altea had a weapon that could combat against the killing machines the Galra had would be enough to give the soldiers confidence. 

In her hesitation, Shiro intervened. “Taking the war to them would be suicidal—they would have nearly every advantage fighting in territory that was stripped of their people’s confidence to fight. Th-The villages we… we…”

Pidge saw the collapse before any of them, before the first stutter—at the single mention of Galra’s advantage, she knew what it meant. Before Shiro went out into battle that day he attacked her, or perhaps even that _morning_ , he’d been somewhere in the midst of the Galra. The redwood forest was several conquered-countries away from the original Galra borders. It meant he spent _time_ in those villages that were under the hand of Zarkon. 

But Shiro was falling, figuratively _and_ literally, and being the closest one to him—aside from Allura—Pidge clutched her arms around him and slowly, gradually, fell with him. Allura grabbed at his arm, and eased the descent, crying out, “What’s wrong? Is he all right?”

“Does he _look_ like he’s all right?” Pidge shouted, shaking as she held onto him and collapsed to the floor. Shiro’s eyes were wild and wide—completely and utterly terrified as he quivered against Pidge, paralyzed in all other ways to the world. 

“Get the physician!” Coran shouted to Hunk, who was practically holding Allura’s hand in fear.

“O-Okay,” he stammered, untangling himself from Allura and rushing out the door to send for the doctor. Pidge tucked her face against Shiro’s shoulder as he twisted just a tad, enough to let her hug him from the front until Allura’s gentle hand reeled her back from the knight.

She made soothing sounds that drew Pidge’s attention to her own sobs. In the panic, Pidge couldn’t hold back her tears at the thought of Shiro never recovering, never being free from the Galra—the idea that he could still _be_ with them and not _here_. 

Hardly several minutes passed before the door burst open, and Hunk returned with the doctor in tow. “I came back as soon as I could,” Hunk panted, seeing the doctor to Shiro’s side. Pidge shrunk next to the knight, clasping onto his arm as if it might fall off, and she’d be there to strap it right back on. 

The physician lifted Shiro’s lids, which were blinking rapidly and trying to see them all at once. The woman told them all to step back from Shiro, give him space to calm his rapid breathing. Pidge refused to be pulled back, even by the Admiral’s forceful hands. Instead, she clasped onto Shiro’s hand and whispered into it, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

After checking Shiro’s heart rate and laying him flat on the ground, the doctor sifted through glass bottles and unscrewed the cap on a small vial. Instead of touching it to his lips, the woman held it under his nose until suddenly Shiro’s gasps became coughs, and then slower breaths. When he returned to the world, his eyes were wider than usual, alert, and looking almost… hollow.

“Sh-Shiro?” Pidge stammered, waiting as his eyes gradually lowered to hers. “Are you all right now?”

He blinked, raising his free hand to cup the side of her head. He released a shaky breath, and used Pidge’s arm for support as he rose up. The doctor grabbed his other hand, telling him to take it slow. Once he was up, he held the woman’s shoulder and thanked her. 

Shiro looked around at them as the doctor left, and stared in a way that terrified Pidge. She worried it was a precarious balance between that manic who slaughtered his entire squadron, and the edge to forgetfulness. Was she wrong? Would his memory-loss only get worse from here?

But he held onto her hand, and when he started out the door after the doctor, Pidge followed. She didn’t bother looking back, even as Hunk followed after them and told the others it’d be best for them to pick up the conversation later “when Shiro isn’t dying.”

They kept walking, and Pidge kept her face up to see how his changed. His normally set, firm face was dimming into that cold, harsh glare. His hand was like the vice that dragged her through the thick of battle, covered in carnage and tearing gore from the stomachs and chests of his squadron. Trails of blood followed the exit of his blade, dripping lines over the bodies at their feet. She stepped over the fallen Galra soldier Shiro took the heart from, and threw aside. Those pupil-less eyes stared past her, cloudy and slick with the blood pooling around them. 

Shiro’s boots stepped once on solid ground, so red it hardly looked like dirt. In fact, it wasn’t dirt—and he sunk, falling without a care. Pidge’s grip tightened on his hand, trying to hold him up, trying so terribly hard—and ultimately failing.

Shiro slipped from her grasp, and that savage look turned to her in a blur, backing her away until at last she felt a hand hold her back, and behind the firm build of Hunk. She stared, panting, as Shiro held the Galra steel blade several inches from its sheath, enough to see the sheen of purple on its blade. Enough to make Pidge scared out of her mind.

“D-Don’t come near us,” she stammered. Shiro’s attention flickered to her in an instant—perhaps never having left his eyes from her in the first place. The action was almost mechanical, as if suddenly he was a puppet, and not the knight who saw her and escaped the Galra hold. Right now, that didn’t seem to be working. 

He stepped towards them, predatory and unyielding. “Run,” she hissed to Hunk, now tugging on his arm. “Run!”

Just as she shouted it, Shiro’s sword was out of its sheath, and Hunk’s came to meet it. The second their weapons crossed paths, the metal screamed and divided, just as it had when Shiro first attacked Pidge. They screamed, the noise alerting the guards down the hall, the servants in the rooms. Their shouts followed them as they sprinted, full-force away from the man who meant to kill them.

Hunk was faster than Pidge initially anticipated. The man wasn’t entirely lean muscle, but he certainly had a lot of bulk on his bones to steer Pidge this way and that, avoiding the blade that careened at their backs, cutting down vases and tables, cabinets and the like. Shiro was reckless in his rampage after them, but thankfully, avoided setting the walls ablaze. At least some part of him realized that cutting down a wall would bring a dozen others down with it.

“We—have to—keep him away from the guards,” Pidge stammered. “He’ll kill them.”

“I know a place,” Hunk replied, “Follow me!” 

They skidded across the tiles. Pidge’s momentum sent her into a wall, and a mere duck was what saved her from a sword to the throat. She skittered away out from under Shiro, only to be kicked and sent sprawling across the corridor floor. She screamed for Hunk to get away, but the man wasn’t having it. He ripped a table from the floor and hurled it at Shiro. It was enough of a diversion to give Pidge time to scramble up, and _get the hell out of there_.

They scrambled down the stairs and vaulted several of the steps to the lower floor. The halls were colder, darker, and took them to rooms with massive structures within them—gyms. Training gyms. It meant there would be weapons to train _with_.

“Get in!” Hunk shouted at her, holding the door open long enough to get the two of them inside, and lock the doors from their end. It would yield to Shiro’s blade, so Pidge followed Hunk to the door in the back of the room. There, they hid, and there, they uncovered shields, and a—

“A _javelin?_ ” Pidge croaked, trying to hold the damn thing up.

“Stay behind me—hold it out like so and—” Hunk started, and screeched to a halt at the sound of the doors of the gym being torn into, cracking and splintering apart. 

Pidge flinched, tightening her grip on the long, piercing object in her hands. Hunk held one in his hands, and wedged it through the handles of the door before reaching for one of the massive training swords from the rack. 

They waited in silence as death’s footsteps advanced on them, echoing just behind the only barrier they could manage. She heard Hunk’s heavy breathing, and felt the clammy sweat on the man’s arm she was near. 

The doors jolted, shaking on their hinges and straining against the javelin. Hunk braced himself then, shield raised, sword poised. 

The Galra sword struck between the two doors, and fizzled against the wood as it descended, severing the javelin barrier in two and releasing the lock. Pidge cried out when Shiro’s sword swung in a downward motion, cutting the shield just several centimeters from where Hunk’s hand held onto the leather strap. 

Hunk swung his training sword at the Galra steel, only to see that one divide in half. In the midst of the attack, however, he took the remains of his shield to slam Shiro in the chest. Pidge watched her knight go down, and clamped her mouth shut when Shiro recovered, only to strike at Hunk’s shield again before kicking the man straight in the chest.

Hunk went down faster than Pidge ever saw anyone collapse. Anyone who kicked that hard would surely break a rib in Hunk’s case, and when she faced Shiro coming at her, all she could do was hold the javelin up and wait for his attack.

Shiro’s sword sliced upward, sending the shattered, scalding pieces of the javelin up from her grasp. He kicked her knees out from under her and, sword leveled with her neck, hesitated. 

Pidge couldn’t be so ignorant as to think Shiro would stop himself for a second time, and yet, here he was, staring at her with that same demonic look he held the second he kicked Hunk in the chest. The Galra steel burned the flesh of her shoulder where the sword was poised, prepared to slice her head clean off her body. She smelled burning flesh almost as terribly as the forest fire he set in the redwoods. 

Shiro blinked, as if to try and convince himself to do it, to just _kill her_ , but instead, the opposite happened. He blinked, and that determined look vanished, and his hold on the sword faltered. Just the simple touch of it on Pidge’s clothes burned like a son of a bitch.

She recoiled from the touch of the sword in an instant, crying out as she tried to pull her burning clothes from her shoulder. As Shiro stumbled away, collapsing against a wall, Hunk dove towards Pidge, whipped out a knife, and sliced the fabric of her shirt. She scrambled to hold it up as he cut the burning fabric away, and stomped it out on the ground. 

Her flesh smelled horrendous as she gingerly placed a hand over the burn. It only brought pain that she hurriedly sought to extinguish. Instead, her anxiety spiked with Hunk whirled his fist back and clobbered Shiro in the face. He turned back to Pidge, who stared at the both of them in horror. 

“Oh God—your shoulder… we need to get you to the doctor _right now_. And by right now I mean _now_. Let’s go!” Hunk shouted, grabbing Pidge’s good arm and heaving it over his shoulder. She expected to follow alongside him, but instead, Hunk swept her off her feet.

There were guards starting in through the wreckage Shiro caused, and as soon as Hunk was close enough, he ordered them to watch over the knight until further notice. “ _Don’t_ touch his sword,” he articulated, recalling the damage even the tang did to the sword’s pommel.

When Hunk stepped over wooden panels from the door, Pidge looked back at where the guards yanked Shiro out onto the gym floor, and forced him to his knees. His eyes were solitary for the moment, but the second he looked at Pidge, she knew for a fact he never meant to hurt her. He never _wanted to_. 

  


  


Shiro wanted to see Pidge more than anything in the world. He wanted to know she was okay, and not just through the voice of Hunk sheepishly delivering updates to him through the bars of his cell. But Shiro accepted this punishment, and would spend the rest of his Altean stay there if it meant Pidge wouldn’t be in danger, and that she was in safe hands with Hunk and Lance, and Allura and Keith. He wasn’t quite sure about Coran yet.

In the solitary cell, Shiro’s mind wandered and he found himself wishing his brain had an off switch. He didn’t want to think of _anything_ that might trigger another episode like that. Would he be confined to a cell for the rest of their stay? For however long it took for him to remember _who_ and _what_ he was to the Galra? 

Shiro ran his hands down his face, staring ahead at the opposite stone wall. He dropped his wrists to his knees, and shut his eyes. He barely slept the night before, or the one before that—what made him think this time would be any easier? He was determined not to spent a second on the mattress Hunk had the guards put in. It smelled a bit like turkey and he wasn’t sure why.

He went into a trance-like state in which he was conscious he wasn’t sleeping, and yet time was passing. What felt like five minutes from then was perhaps an hour or two, and that was when he heard voices pouring in from the open door to the keep. He kept his eyes shut, even though he recognized Hunk among them, and Lance. The bloke was laughing under his breath at something Hunk said, and it wasn’t until he heard a third voice say, “Shut it, Lance,” did he actually open his eyes.

They were at his cell, and he scrambled to his feet the second he saw the familiar girl between them. Her face was solid stone, her expression unchanging as he approached the bars and noted her appearance. She was in a loose-fitting, long-sleeved shirt, laced up at the collar. He saw a bandage peaking out from it, large enough to give him the image of the wrap that must have encircled her entire shoulder. 

Before he could apologize profusely, she commented, “Hunk really did a number on your eye.”

“No kidding,” Lance mumbled beside her, arms folded as he glanced at his guard. “Way to go, Hunk—half-blinded him.”

“I already apologized. Several times,” Hunk admitted, reminding Shiro that several days had gone by. Hunk came on every one of them, and each time with _good_ food, and an apology as the bruising turned yellow. It didn’t help that the man could hardly laugh, given the state of his bruised rib. That only added to Shiro’s guilt.

Shiro placed his hands on the bars, full of sorrow as the image of the Princess cowering came back, twice now, and her fear caused by him. It was nearly enough to make him regret not following her orders to _leave her alone_ that day in the redwood forest. She knew he’d strike again, but he wasn’t prepared for it. He didn’t know he could come so close to killing her…

“I-I’m _so sorry_ ,” he breathed out, “I would never intentionally hurt you. I’d understand if you didn’t want me around you—I cannot be positive this will happen again, and I don’t want to risk it. I don’t want to hurt you, P-Prince Matthew.” 

He rarely ever felt this choked up, and it felt as if he was trying to swallow his own heart as he waited for Pidge’s expression to change. After a minute, she swallowed hard and released a deep breath, as if she’d been holding it that entire time. “I know you weren’t in your right mind,” she said, pausing as she unclasped her hands and tugged at the hem of her shirt. “I want to forgive you, but under one condition.”

“I don’t want you to forgive me,” he countered, shutting his eyes as he held onto the bars tighter. “It was wrong of me to lose control like that. You shouldn’t forgive me.”

“Fine,” she snapped, “but I don’t want you to be miserable and beat yourself up over this. I’ll have the King release you only if you agree to teach me how to fight better.”

Shiro blinked at her, shocked, and glanced at Lance and Hunk, who hardly seemed phased by it. They knew she wanted this, and yet they didn’t think it was an awful idea? Why hadn’t they argued against it? Training Pidge wouldn’t necessarily mean Shiro had to actively _fight_ her, and even sparring would be dangerous. What if he lost control in the middle of a match? 

“No, that isn’t a wise idea,” he countered, shaking his head.

For a moment, Pidge’s expression changed, and it was to that of irritation. Her jaw tightened, her retort on the tip of her tongue. “ _Fine_. I’m not coming back down here until you agree to train me.”

“Pidge,” he started, aware that the name sounded foreign to Lance and Hunk, “you’re being ridiculous.”

“I am _not_. You will continue to blame yourself until the day you die when you won’t even accept my forgiveness. I want to help you, but I can’t do that unless you help yourself,” she snapped at him, jabbing her finger at him. “What happened _wasn’t your fault_. I was scared to death for _your_ safety—one second we were talking in the conference room and the next you were having a panic attack! How can you put yourself through more torture?” 

Shiro’s demeanor shattered, and he leaned away from the bars to try and collect himself again. He wished she didn’t look so much like her brother, and how the words made him ache at the thought of having abandoned Matthew, not knowing where he was and if he was okay. He couldn’t let Pidge see past that and act as if the accusations she made in the redwood forest _weren’t_ true. They were authentic, and Shiro knew that now. He couldn’t deny the fact that Pidge had a reason to be furious with him.

Why couldn’t she let him go now that she had the chance? She could just let him stay here in a cell, but she was _trying_ to get him back to her side. The girl he saved from the war wouldn’t have done such a thing. What changed?

“Hunk promised to help with the training,” Pidge added, reaching a hand out to grasp the bar nearest Shiro. “And Allura—while she’s here anyway. And when I’m not working on designing the gun.”

“I shouldn’t be… be _fighting_ with you at all. It would be dangerous, when I don’t enough know what could trigger another one of those _attacks_ ,” he confessed, clenching his fists at his sides. He grimaced as he apologized again, “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I can’t train you.”

He could tell she was about ready to yell at him some more, but Lance touched his hand to her arm and held her back. “Let him think for a while. It was nice seeing you again, Shiro,” he said, and waved feebly at Shiro before walking off with Pidge’s wrist in his hand. 

Hunk stayed behind, watching Shiro’s breath come out uneasy and his hands come up to his face. The big man reached behind him and unclipped a bag from his belt. It was a loaf of bread—the spicy bread Lance claimed was the best in all of Altea. “Here, and I’d recommend just tossing the twisty-tie out of the cell. So the guards don’t think you plan on breaking yourself out,” Hunk said with an awkward laugh, squeezing the loaf through the bars.

Shiro took the bag and thanked him, but Hunk didn’t seem to be leaving any time soon. 

After a minute of silence, and Shiro twisting open the bag, Hunk talked. “Listen, I never agreed to having you be Matthew’s trainer. I told him it wasn’t a smart idea.”

“So did I,” he confessed with a sigh.

“Well, I guess what I’m trying to say is… is that I think it was good of you to recognize that you might be a danger to him. I am not saying it’s great or anything like that, it sucks, I know, but… I think now that you’re aware that this could happen, it might be less likely to occur in the future? Perhaps? I don’t know, I’m not exactly a doctor.”

“The physician said it wouldn’t have happened to an average patient,” Shiro said, tearing at a piece of the bread, a scowl on his face. “Before I went on my rampage, it seemed like I was just in shock and it would have passed. She thought it would, but something took over. I can’t explain it.”

Hunk stared at him, looking slightly awkward. It was easy to tell the man didn’t know how to respond to Shiro’s dire news, and promptly made an excuse to catch up with Lance. Shiro watched him run off, and munched absently on bread for the time being. 

Shiro realized Pidge would be angry with him for some time now, and while he wanted her grudge to be short, he knew it was better if she stayed angry with him. Perhaps then she wouldn’t feel inclined to stay close to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Hunk--can't laugh without feeling like Shiro kicked him in the chest. Oh wait, he did lol.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's read this far! :) I've made two new pieces of fanart--one is based off of Keith and Lance as they are in _Galra Steel_ , and the other is of Keith and Shiro in a zombie apocalypse:
> 
> [x](http://gurlskylark.tumblr.com/post/149031973455/keith-is-debating-how-best-to-punch-lance-in-the) | [x](http://gurlskylark.tumblr.com/post/149039582550/has-a-voltron-apocalypse-au-been-done-yet-my)


	11. Undercover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Royal drama ensues between our favorite members of the space squad.

“Wow. They gave you one of the good rooms,” Lance mused from beside Hunk as the both of them arrived in the Prince’s quarters. The boy walked in and, evidently bummed about the day’s events, collapsed face-first onto the bed. 

Lance plopped down beside him as Matthew’s muffled groan turned into a monotone scream. There were papers sprawled across the comforter, so Lance went and picked a few of them up and sifted through them, absently patting Matthew’s back as he did so. 

There were so many drawings on them, and all of the architectural tools on the bed were almost hazardous as Lance struggled to find space to lay down among them. The Prince was an artist when it came to sketching these prototypes—there were nearly five variations at this point, mainly because the Prince spent so much time away from everyone to work in the fabled library Hunk apparently forgot to mention to Lance. 

Well, perhaps Lance _was_ aware that there was a library. But that didn’t mean he’d spend _time_ in there, unlike the two nerds on either side of him.

Hunk removed his weapon belt and kicked off his boots before joining them on the bed with a stifled sigh. Anything more than a regular breath was like a bunch to his chest (or a kick, rather). The bed was large enough to accommodate all of them, which was saying something considering Hunk was approximately the size of Lance and Matthew combined. He crossed his legs and penciled over marks on the sketches. “You’ve fitted an elmwood fullstock to this one—what happened to the walnut?”

“I don’t know. Do whatever you like,” the Prince muttered, waving his hand dismissively.

Lance sighed and glanced over at him from underneath the pages in his hands. The Prince was still face-down on the bed, unresponsive. “Who cares what type of wood you use? Wood is wood.”

“Well, I’m afraid that wood might start on fire if we use it on the pistols,” Hunk confessed. “But we have to use something to keep the user’s hands off the metal when it heats up.”

“It won’t start on fire,” the Prince mumbled, turning his head to the side. “Trust me on this. I was worried too, but at this point we really can’t argue with it. Unless you want to bundle it up in some silk?”

“Okay, point taken,” Hunk said.

“Are you going to ignore the fact that Shiro is still in the keep?” Lance blurted out, only to receive a groan in reply. Lance moaned aloud and whined, “Look, I understand that you want to learn how to fight, but Allura’s a perfectly fine mentor. Shiro’s ticket out of the keep shouldn’t be training you.”

“Then what _should_ it be?” the Prince snapped, bolting up onto her elbows to glare at him. 

Lance sighed and counting the reasons in his head, but all of them would _keep_ Shiro where he was, not _remove_ him from it. “You _know_ my standpoint on this,” he started, “and honestly, going down there just solidified it. The man hardly even trusts himself. There’s not much we can do when he’s determined to stay away from you—it’s enough reasoning to have Keith keep him down there.”

“Th-Then what about—The guards removed everything from him before tossing him in the cell. Someone mentioned a letter from Commander Harris, dated when we left the capitol,” the Prince reasoned. “It explicitly _states_ that the commander trusts him. Wouldn’t that outweigh the word of a knight? Shouldn’t we be listening to Commander Harris’ letter than what Shiro says?”

“The man knows himself better than his superior does,” Lance said, and looked to Hunk for approval.

The big man pursed his lips and shrugged. “I gotta say, Lance does have a point. The two of you were gone for several years now. A lot’s changed.”

This silenced the Prince, and sent him deep in thought. Lance, still tense from worrying about the Prince and his concern over Shiro, tried to relax against the mattress and stared up at the canopy overhead. The room was doused in a forest color scheme, with neutral olive tones and green curtains. The sun was currently out after several days of stormy weather, and washed over the bed in transparent green. 

Lance wished they could crack open a window or something, but these high-profile rooms were set to prevent intruders, or escapees, for that matter. It meant the windows didn’t move, and the door to Shiro’s room was perpetually unlocked. It was left open at the time Lance and Hunk were there, and he felt sorry for the Prince. Shiro _had_ been the one to save Matthew, and it was probably hard to come to terms with the fact that Shiro was capable of hurting him. 

A knock sounded on the bedroom door, and Lance called out, “Who is it!”

“It’s just me!” _Coran_. Of course he’d know where they were. Lance knew for a fact that man was notorious for scouting the castle and keeping tabs on his underlings. He recalled fondly the days Lance would try and skip meetings and be hunted down by Coran several minutes before their expected arrival to the conference room. The man would show up out of nowhere, pinch him by the ear, and drag him through the halls. 

It was embarrassing.

“I knew I’d find you three in here,” Coran said cheerfully as he entered the room and walked up to the bed, hands on his hips. “Allura wants to know how it went with Shiro.”

“Of _course_ she does. She’s smitten with him,” Lance moaned, folding his arms over his face. The second he did so, however, Coran was there to kick his feet that dangled off the end of the bed. “Ouch! Stop kicking me!”

“Then don’t assume who and who is not a potential love interest, especially for the Admiral,” Coran snapped.

“Ew, _love interest?_ ” Hunk said, repulsed. “Who uses that word nowadays anyway? Also, I don’t want to think about Allura liking _anyone_.”

“Yeah, because whoever the poor lad is—or lass, not assuming things here, _Coran_ —would most likely come out of the relationship with a few broken ribs and a black eye,” Lance snorted, sitting up and dodging Coran’s kick as best he could. Hunk giggled to himself, and shrieked when Coran flicked him in the head.

“Hey! I didn’t do anything, I promise!” Hunk complained.

“You always encourage him,” the Prince muttered into the blankets. Hearing him talk was enough to silence Lance and Hunk, and send Coran into a fit of laughter. “Could you _please_ take this outside? I need to think.”

“I take it that your escapade to the keep didn’t turn out so well,” Coran commented, and received a grunt from the Prince. 

“Would Commander Harris’ letter help at all?” he asked. 

“The King’s read it, actually,” Coran answered, and instantly the Prince was rising up from the bed to look directly at the advisor. “That’s the reason I came over here in the first place. He would like to talk with you about it—and _you two_ aren’t allowed.”

“What? Why not?” Lance blurted out. “I’m practically Matthew’s righthand!”

“My hand works perfectly fine, thank you,” the Prince retorted, holding it up for all to see. 

Lance scowled at it, and nearly urged Coran to take them along as well, but the terms were set. And he wanted to know why Keith didn’t want Lance along. He was already bummed out about not being there when Shiro became possessed into killing the Prince. That was also under Keith’s recommendation before he left to go to the meeting. _Why is he cutting me out of these meetings?_ Lance wanted to know.

And he planned on finding out why.

Once the Prince and Coran were gone, Lance stood up and beckoned Hunk to follow him. The instant he did, though, Hunk groaned. “We are _not_ spying on them.”

“Oh, toughen up. I’m _not_ letting them keep me in the dark like this,” Lance countered.

They snuck out of the Prince’s quarters and hurried through the halls to Lance’s room. By the time Hunk shut the door, Lance was already sifting through the clothes in his closet and snatching up his favorite black coat. _For secret missions, of course_ , he mused as he shed his blue overcoat and replaced it. He slid out of the closet as if about to pick up a dance number, and it did little to amuse Hunk when the guard was already against the plan. “Come on, show a little spirit,” he complained.

“I don’t agree with this, but I’m coming anyway because I don’t want you to make a fool of yourself,” Hunk said, following after Lance out of the room.

They snuck down the halls and hid in doorways when guards came by intersecting corridors. Lance silenced Hunk’s grumbling as they approached the conference room through the servant hall, but as he pressed his ear to the door, he was disappointed to find no sound. 

“So they aren’t in the conference room…” he mused aloud, pursing his lips as he thought. Hunk sighed against the wall, taking up the width of the small servant canal. “Would they be in the sitting room?”

“No. Keith mentioned earlier that it _would_ be a nice day… perhaps they’re outside?” Hunk suggested. Of _course_ the big brute would remember miniature details like that! Lance hardly remembered anything from their conversation with Keith—he was too busy staring at the King’s mouth to know what words were coming out of it.

Lance pushed Hunk out the other end of the servant hall and hurried to Keith’s favorite courtyard—he hoped it was the same as it was three years ago. It was among one of the larger of the three courtyards in the castle, and was surrounded on all ends by open hallways divided by columns, and accompanied with massive potted plants in the summertime. The courtyard itself was grassy and spotted with stone walkways, and shaded by cherry blossoms and other flowering trees. Lance had to admit it was also _his_ favorite courtyard.

Lance hurried behind one of the columns and urged Hunk to take the one next to him. They hid in the shadows of the columns, accepting the peculiar looks from the guards standing at their posts. He was just glad that they guards didn’t take them for assassins—they knew Lance well enough to know this wasn’t completely out of character for him.

He peered out from behind the column and searched the greenery. The fact that there were guards all around was enough proof that the King was in there, but _where_ was the question. 

Lance motioned for Hunk to follow as he bolted for a set of bushes nearby, and then to the trunk of an apple tree. Hunk casually walked after him without a care, and sighed when Lance glared at him. “I told you, I’m coming along but I don’t agree with spying.”

“Coran does it all the time, you know that,” Lance snapped, peering around the apple tree and over the branch near his eye level. He searched for a moment until his eyes were drawn to the figure sitting beneath a tree—Keith. Lance recognized that mullet anywhere. 

Keith was seated on a blanket at the base of a twisted tree that shaded the space where Coran and Allura accompanied him. They were having one big party _without_ Lance, because he knew the Prince was there as well. What were they talking about that Lance couldn’t know of? Lance was charged to be with the Prince after his arrival, shouldn’t _he_ be in the loop then?

“Unbelievable,” Lance muttered. “ _Everyone_ is over there.”

“Okay, but not actually _everyone_. That would include all of Terra and Altea and the Galra Empire,” Hunk corrected, and at Lance’s glare, promptly added, “But I see your point.”

As they grew closer, Lance observed Allura had her hand on the Prince’s back, and was talking quietly to him. He ducked in between bunches of flowers and bushes before settling where a hedge grew in earshot of their conversation. Hunk, thankfully, was crouched down and suddenly interested in eavesdropping.

“—think he might have remembered something about the villages the Galra captured?” Coran was saying.

“I don’t know. I think it’s likely he knows, but I imagine it’s hard to stomach that kind of information,” the Prince said. Lance tried to see through the leaves, and only came up with the image of Prince Matthew staring down at his lap. “I don’t know. If my theory’s correct, he should be remembering things in reverse order, and it isn’t farfetched to assume that the base he was stationed at was a Galra-captured village. But I don’t want to pressure him into telling us—because if he _doesn’t_ remember, exactly, then the pressure might trigger another episode.”

“We do not know that for sure,” Allura said. “We do not know _what_ triggers his attacks. But we cannot walk on eggshells around him like this. Keeping him locked up won’t help his mental state, either.”

“Do you have any information from the Garrison, any specifics about where the Galra were stationed when you went into the battle?” Keith spoke up, and just that one statement sent Lance’s brows into a furrowed line. 

“A little. It was all rather sudden—they weren’t expecting the Galra to attack that particular stronghold until fires on their side of the redwoods went out. They used it to their advantage, I guess you could say—there were mountains to one side of us, and the fires to the other, and they cornered us where the stronghold touched the forests. The nearest Galra village was about… twenty miles to the west. Close enough to be the base where Shiro was,” the Prince explained. 

Silence ensued as Coran murmured something under his breath. Lance changed his position to see his superior glance in Keith’s direction. The King had his fingers pinched over his lips, studying the Prince solemnly. “You never should have been there, Pidge,” he said.

“I wanted to _help_ ,” the Prince hissed. “I know it was stupid—you think I don’t know that? I may not have been built for a front linemen, but I certainly wasn’t built to be the damn princess who would marry _you_.”

_What the hell?_ “I know, and there’s no point in bringing that up again. Consider the marriage proposal off,” Keith replied, voice sour. “Besides, if word gets out that the deceased princess is in Altea, Terra might forsake any alliance they had with us, regardless of our support to them in the war effort. They’d call it some kind of… _conspiracy_ , that maybe _we_ were the ones to plot her fake death.”

“It wouldn’t be wise to tell anyone. Not yet anyways,” Coran admitted. “Princess Katherine would not be in favor. And I hate to consider it, but you may _never_ be in favor, even after all of this.”

“That’s fine. I am not Katherine anymore, anyway.”

Hunk jolted Lance’s arm, breaking him out of his trance and back to reality—was that conversation real? Were they claiming… _no_ , it was real. That person who tricked him into feeling guilty over Princess Katherine’s death _was_ her. That meant…

_Prince Matthew isn’t okay_.

This _person_ who guilt tripped him the day they met wasn’t Prince Matthew.

“Stay here,” Lance told Hunk before rising, shaking off the hand that tried to hold him back.

“Don’t go over there— _Lance_ ,” Hunk hissed at him as he started out from the bushes and stormed to the lovely little picnic.

He came into view fast, and instantly Keith cursed, and drew Coran and Allura’s attention over to where Lance fumed, climbing the hill on which they sat. Allura stood and said, “Lance! Its lovely to see you again—”

“Shut it,” he hissed at her, glaring at the little shit at his feet. The stranger craned their neck back, and peered up at him. “Who the hell are you if you aren’t the Prince?” he demanded.

Allura pushed on his shoulder to move back, saying something like, “Please Lance, don’t do this now.” He shook her off and glared at her, only to be confronted by Coran as he stepped between the two of them. Lance sneered at them, and looked at the culprit as they stood up from their spot on the blanket.

“Why didn’t—” he started, his fury breaking when he saw the guilt he caused. _No, this isn’t my fault_. “Why did you make me—you made me relive the guilt of Katherine’s suicide! How could you do that! Was that just a joke to you?” he suddenly shouted, prepared to dodge Coran, just to take out his anger on this small, guilt-stricken kid staring back at him.

“I-I don’t know.” The words barely did anything to console him. “I shouldn’t have pestered you about it—I just… didn’t want to be recognized as her.”

“As _who?_ ” he demanded.

“As Katherine! _I_ was the princess!” she shouted back, throwing down her arms. “I’m the reason you were condemned to blame yourself for the princess’ suicide and… it was wrong of me to bring it up. I-I had to act like I was Matthew but I—”

“And _Shiro_ knew about it?” Lance snapped. “The _knight_ charged to _protect the Prince_?”

“He didn’t want to! Trust me!” she cried out. Lance stared at her in astonishment, turning away to try and gather his thoughts. This girl didn’t just trick him—Shiro was involved in this as well. And to think he thought that man was a legend. “Shiro has no part in this, Lance, trust me—”

“How can I! When you _lied to me_ and to Hunk and—and—” Lance frantically looked to Allura and Coran, and… _Keith_. The man was still sitting at the tree, looking exhausted by the entire affair. “ _You_ ,” he sneered at Keith, gaining the man’s attention. “ _You_ knew about this! And you didn’t tell me!”

“I knew before Allura and Coran, if that makes it fair,” Keith said dismissively, and before Lance could scream at him some more he was interrupted.

“I had my suspicions—seeing as the Prince and I spent some time together when he visited as a child,” Allura said.

“Yes, and I pride myself on my excellent observation skills. Though, I have to say, Pidge, you managed to pull off the Prince look rather nicely even though certain details in this region are starting to come through,” Coran said, patting his hands on his own chest. The girl gave him a disgusted look and shook her head, self-consciously folding her arms over her chest.

Lance shook his head at them, and started towards Keith as he rose to his feet. He grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him, sneering, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner! Were you just going to keep me in the dark this whole time? And not mention that the _actual Prince_ is still with the Galra?”

“Lance, calm down,” Hunk said from the side, but Lance refused to look away from that perpetually condescending glower on Keith’s face.

“I only just found out the day Shiro attacked Hunk and Pidge,” he told Lance, voice as calm as it could be. 

“That was almost a week ago!” Lance cried out, thrusting him into the tree and stepping away as Allura gave a shout for him to stop pushing Keith around. He started to walk away when a hand grabbed onto the sleeve of his coat, and he found Pidge staring up at him.

“I really am sorry, Lance,” she said, “Would it be too much to ask that we stay friends?”

His lips threatened to twist into another sneer, so he shook her off and turned away, saying, “Yes, it would be.”


	12. Imprisonment

“I know I said I wouldn’t come back down here.”

“That’s okay, Pidge. You can still talk to me.”

Pidge sighed, leaning against the opposite concrete wall with her head back and eyes skyward. She closed them and sunk down, settling in for another lecture. She was starting to miss them, even if it was just a week since Shiro’s imprisonment. At this point, she wanted to be yelled at, as if Lance hadn’t yelled at her enough. But she knew Shiro wouldn’t do that—he was more of a stern talker. 

She needed some stern talking to.

“You look upset,” he commented, reaching up and holding onto the bars over his head. He had a relaxed stance, as if suddenly this entire ordeal had become a vacation for him away from the strain of keeping a facade.

“I am,” she confessed, rubbing a hand down the side of her face. “I don’t know what to do—I should probably explain, unless Hunk already told you. No? Well, that figures. Lance and Hunk are royally pissed at me and I haven’t talked to either of them since we came to visit you yesterday. Everyone knows about me being… not Prince Matthew—at least everyone who _matters_.”

“Everyone matters, Pidge. Who knows?”

“You, for one, and Keith, since just before your incident, and Allura put two-and-two together. And Coran probably weaseled the information out of Keith. There was a huge situation yesterday and Lance and Hunk found out via eavesdropping. It was all just… not how I imagined breaking the news to Lance. Hunk was kind of okay about it.” She was rambling, and she couldn’t stop as she continued. “Well, as okay as he could be, considering they were both _lied to_ and Lance was so upset about it. It’s like he expects me to have an entire chest full of lies now. And Hunk and I were supposed to start building the first model today… so that fell through—”

“Take a deep breath for me, will you?” Shiro asked, slowing her down for a moment. She tried to gather all of her thoughts in the few seconds it took to inhale… and release. “Better?”

“Depends on what you consider _better_ when pretty much your only friends _hate you_.”

“They don’t hate you, Pidge,” he said, shaking his head. “Hunk seems pretty forgiving. Lance will take some time to calm down. Like you just now. It will take more than a day to clear things up with them, trust me on this. You can’t fix everything with a snap of your fingers.”

She felt her throat constricting, and hastily rubbed her hands over her cheeks to make sure she hadn’t burst into tears unknowingly. Her shaky breath was enough to consent to her eminent tears, so Shiro called her over. She was on her feet and in front of the bars in a few seconds, leaning her head where his chest was on the other side, and let him rub his hands up and down her arms. 

“It will be _fine_. You and I both knew revealing this to people would be catastrophic. And you never mentioned anything about the King or the Admiral being upset about you. Are they angry with you as well?”

“Not necessarily,” she confessed. “Keith was… okay about it after we talked things through. Suffice to say there won’t be a marriage anytime soon.”

Shiro laughed, and the sound brought a ghost of a smile to her lips. “A-And Allura just seems excited about the entire gunsmithing ordeal. Coran just seems very flustered about how to deal with this new information.”

They fell quiet for a while, until Pidge’s breathing was even again, and Shiro retracted his hands back through the bars. “You are not alone, Pidge, you know that, right?” Shiro told her. “I’m glad you talked to me.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly on my itinerary,” she chuckled. “But thanks.”

“Ha, well, do me a favor then,” he said, and she quirked her eyebrows up. “It’s nothing much. Just _talk_ to Hunk. I imagine you haven’t done that yet. Talk to him, and get to work on being excellent gunsmiths. I like to call it team bonding.”

She smirked at him and waved her hand as she started off towards the exit, “Certainly, chief. Will do.”

  


_Pidge @Shiro: Thanks dad._  
_Shiro @Pidge: Don't call me that. Please._  


  


“Have you ever noticed that you are always the one apologizing to me?” Lance’s comment may have seemed casual, unassuming, but it struck Keith’s chest where all his stress and anxiety rested. Of course _he_ was the one constantly apologizing, because he always did something wrong.

He dropped his gaze and murmured, “I know—you never do anything to make me upset. You have no reason to apologize to me.”

“What, are you going to say you feel like shit again? Are you going to ignore the fact that I _don’t want to see you_ , sneak into my room for a quickie? Take advantage of my ‘vulnerable state’?” The way Lance put it made their previous argument sound like it was all in favor to Keith, but that just wasn’t the case. That wasn’t how he saw it, and he _knew_ Lance didn’t think so either. He was just furious, and had reason to be.

“That isn’t true, Lance,” Keith pressed, looking him in the eye. “I would _never_ take advantage of you, you know that.”

“I’m starting to think that I don’t,” he remarked, scowl unyielding. After a minute of silence, Lance sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes, poised to shut the door. This time, Keith didn’t barge his way in, and let it shut where he could then rest his forehead against the wood and try not to feel as though his relationship with Lance wasn’t already crumbling. He was never great at picking up the pieces when it came to his personal relationships. Hell, the only friend he retained through adolescence was Allura, which didn’t really count because the woman was hard to get rid of in the first place.

He heard a pair of footsteps approach, and a brief correspondence between the messenger and the guard. After a second, the guard cleared his throat. “Sir, Coran requests that you return to your offices as soon as possible,” he informed, the messenger retreating.

Keith sighed, collecting himself in the few seconds it took to even his breathing. “Perfect. Let’s go.”

For the remainder of the evening, Keith wondered just how courting occurred. He couldn’t remember a time when he ever courted Lance—it was always the other way around. And he had to think that Lance’s version of “courting” wasn’t universally known. Cheeky dinner dates _in_ Keith’s bedchamber, followed by rough sex? That was the extent of their pre-relationship. On occasion they took walks through the courtyards, which was synonymous with courting. 

He’d have to come up with something better than that to win back Lance, considering the man refused to hear anymore apologies. 

Coran heard enough of Keith’s worries with Lance and left before dark, and later Allura visited him and lounged in the seat across from his desk. There, he managed to find _something_ out about winning back Lance.

“—Honestly? Do you know if he’d be willing to _go_ on a date with you?” Allura asked. “An unwilling subject is an unhappy one.”

“That’s why I have to make the plan flawless. He won’t know a thing about it. We’ll say _you_ wanted to talk to him and—”

“See, this is why he has trust issues, Keith!” she exclaimed. “That is no way to convince Lance that you would do better. But that isn’t even wise if Lance is looking for is a relationship full of honesty. You _are_ the King, which means certain conversations are _meant_ to remain in secret. That is why we kept the Princess’ secret from him. It’s your _job_ to—”

“ _God_ , you sound like Coran,” Keith complained, resting his head against his fingertips. “I don’t want… I don’t know. I just do not want Lance to be alone. He is not _meant_ to be alone—he needs someone who can make him happy at all times and—”

“You just cannot do that,” Allura finished sorrowfully. She sighed and said, “Well, if it’s a battle plan you are looking for, I can help with that. But after winning back the lad I can’t say I can help you there. Have you ever thought about… I don’t know, letting him find someone else to do all that for him? Make him happy at all hours of the day? Be with him constantly? Besides, the man isn’t a child; he can live perfectly fine on his own. He spent three years in Terra with Hunk. He _is_ independent now, if you haven’t noticed.”

Keith supposed that _did_ happen when one was away from all family and friends for years on end. 

He thought on that note for some time as Allura went and retrieved a book from one of the shelves and settled down onto one of the couches nearby. All at once, an idea came to him, and he swiped a blank page from the side and began to write a note. Several lines was sufficient enough to get his point across, and after folding it up and sealing it with red wax and his emblem, he passed it to Allura.

“Give this to my messenger. It goes to Lance’s family.”

  


  


Shiro spent some time reflecting on the recent event of his loss of self-control. He treaded this thread rather lightly, in fear that recalling the details would summon another massive outburst, but after spending so much time alone, he gave up on being cautious. He thought about it, and continued to do so for the following week of his containment.

Pidge was right about one thing—he _did_ recall being a commander for the Galra, and the squadron he campaigned with, and the two troops it involved. He couldn’t remember specifics, such as the _names_ of the Galra he was with, but he remembered knowing them, and… _liking_ them to some finite degree. It was nothing close to friendship or admiration, but it was enough to make life tolerable when it came to entering the bloodshed.

Entering the bloodshed was another story. There were others with him, including his superior whom he stood alongside in an abandoned shelter owned by the family who previously lived in the war zone. The man was hardly that—having manipulated his body under the addictive qualities of sorcery, as Shiro’s arm was. His superior was even more so— _invincible_ , some called him. 

Shiro determined to come up with as many details as his memory allowed, which included the fact that his superior hardly contained a shred of his human self.

His hand was like that of animal claws, gripping onto Shiro’s shoulder with a force that could tear skin from bones. He spoke in Galra tongue, locking eyes with Shiro with a threatening sense to his words. Though, Shiro could hardly remember them. He could hardly remember a speck of the Galra language.

He remembered the day he arrived at the village he stood in with his superior. The past residents—the ones who were still there—were a sight he didn’t want to recall. He shut his eyes at the reminder of how the Galra soldiers _treated them_. There were chains encircling the redwoods nearby, with locks attached at five-foot intervals where the prisoners were kept, drilled against the trunk and unable to move more than a few inches from the trees. That certainly wasn’t the worst of their containment. 

Shiro wondered how he’d been able to _watch_ them. But he realized that the only reason he gave a shit about the people in his troop was because they never partook in the soldiers’ “activities” with the prisoners. Simply because Shiro told them _not to_.

He couldn’t imagine Prince Matthew being in that situation. He couldn’t. Not if he wanted to stay sane.

After the fifth day following Pidge’s last visit, Shiro decided to pester his head about Prince Matthew. He avoided the subject simply because he believed ignorance was bliss, but he knew the consequences of that. He couldn’t be so ignorant as to think Matthew and the King were safe. The fact of the matter was this: They _weren’t safe_ as long as the Zarkon has his hands on Terran territory. 

But Shiro’s mind was consciously convincing him that Matthew as okay, but that wasn’t logical. Shiro couldn’t trick himself into believing that, otherwise he would lose motivation. 

The next time a guard came to dispense food into his cell, he asked to see the King—and if not the King then Coran. After some time, unable to touch his food, Shiro stopped pacing when the guard returned with Coran at his heels. 

“You understand why the King cannot come down here,” Coran said, and Shiro agreed with him. “What is it?”

“I have had a lot of time to think,” Shiro started, gripping onto one of the bars nearest the advisor, “and I have put together some of the memories I picked up from my… rampage. Information about the state of the villages, and who my superior was in the war.”

“And what would you have in return for handing this information over?” Coran inquired, folding his arms over his chest. Shiro furrowed his brows and shook his head.

“Nothing. I just want to help. You can… keep me down here if you have to. I don’t care,” Shiro said, but the hesitance in his voice was starting to say otherwise. It was human nature to wont for freedom, even if confinement was for the better.

Coran watched him through steely eyes before sighing, and gesturing for the guard to retrieve cuffs, and send for a person to relay the news to the King. “We’ll discuss details after we hear what you have to say,” Coran told him.

By the time Shiro was out of his cell, connected by a chain to a guard, and escorted up to the King’s offices, Pidge received word via eavesdropping the second Coran left for some mysterious solo mission to the keep. As if _Shiro_ would normally have a chat with the ginger-headed man. She snuck up to the King’s offices and upon hearing her bicker with the guards outside his doors, Keith let her in. “You shouldn’t be snooping around,” he chastised.

“So? Coran does it all the time,” she countered, shrugging as she dropped herself onto one of the couches. “Besides, Shiro’s coming up here, so obviously I have to sit in on this.”

Keith sighed, pinching his fingers to the bridge of his nose and saying, “ _Fine_ , since clearly you get a kick out of disregarding peoples’ orders, you can stay.”

Pidge smirked up at him and lounged back in the couch. Keith went to his chair and plopped down, looking less stressed than usual, though still scowl-faced and snippy. At least his shoulders weren’t up at his ears and he wasn’t sending Allura into a panic. 

“So I hear you scrapped together your relationship with Lance,” Pidge commented, earning yet another glare from Keith. “How’d you manage that?”

“Nothing that _you_ need to concern yourself with,” he said, and soon after smirked in a way that made Pidge thankful her plan to win Lance back didn’t involve whatever _he_ did. In fact, she didn’t exactly _have_ a plan. She hoped to ask Shiro what his thoughts were.

“What will you do when you actually _have_ to marry someone? For political reasons?” Pidge asked, still trying to wipe her memory clean of the image of Keith and Lance doing _whatever_. Certainly not family-friendly activities; _that_ , she was certain of.

Keith’s expression was set to kill the second his attention flashed back to her. She recoiled a little and made a mental note to stay away from this topic next time. “I do not need to be reminded of how unrealistic it is to _have_ a relationship in the first place when Coran is there to do that on a daily basis,” he remarked cooly, shrinking back into his chair. He clasped his hands together, a shadow falling over his eyes. “It’s like my mother hired him for the purpose of warding away potential suitors that _weren’t_ suitable in her eyes. In other words, anyone other than _you_ simply because you are the daughter of King Samuel Holt.”

She gave a nervous laugh and mumbled uncertainly, “Ha, right. Good thing that isn’t happening.”

Keith scoffed, glancing towards the door as if expecting the expected to burst in. “Yes, well, do not be surprised if you find Coran asking you frivolous things like what your hobbies, likes, and dislikes are. And then to find them all there the next time we have a meal together.”

“That’s all in my favor then,” Pidge smirked devilishly, wondering if it would be possible to get a peanut butter malt for desert. She devised a plan to mention this to Coran—subtly, of course, so as not to avoid detection… no one needed to know her weakness. 

Her mouth was starting to salivate at the thought of _cookies_ and _chocolate_. She hadn’t had chocolate in _ages_ —the Garrison was strict on anything surrounding sweets, and her supply there had been short-lived and restricted to the few days her and her troop spent in the nearest town. Even then, delicacies of that sort were rationed and expensive. She had yet to sniff them out here.

 _Perhaps Hunk would_ … she stopped her train of thought instantly, reminding herself that _no_ , Hunk wouldn’t want to help her with something so insignificant. She told herself it wasn’t even likely that he would want to continue working with her. 

Just as her mind became bleaker, a knock sounded on the door and Coran poked his head in. “Allura and Shirogane are here, sir.”

“Bring them in,” Keith said briskly, and before the door could open too far, Coran spied Pidge on the other end of the room and narrowed his eyes at the both of them, as if they’d been conspiring together while he was gone. “She stays here,” Keith argued before Coran could start talking again.

Coran grudgingly held the door open, and in entered Shiro, accompanied by the Admiral. Soon after them came a familiarly large fellow, whom Pidge shrunk at the sight of, and tried to become as invisible as possible.

Allura, who held Shiro’s chained shackles, passed them to Hunk’s open hand, and went to sit alongside Pidge. Just as Coran was starting to shut the door, a hand stopped it and a lean figure slid in with a quipped, “Whoops, sorry about that Coran. You aren’t shutting me out again.”

“Of course not,” Coran said, rolling his eyes. Pidge regretted deciding to join now that she knew who her company was. The blood in her face vanished as Lance strolled in, and hopped onto a blank corner of Keith’s desk, ankles crossed and expression even crosser as he became aware of the figure dissolving into the couch cushions.

“So the whole gang is here. _Splendid_ ,” he said, cunning yet strained smile spreading over his cheeks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is all about Klance and how they first met :P Expect the unexpected when it comes to Lance.
> 
> Kudos?


	13. How It Began

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter involves a bit of time-jumping between past and present. Also, be warned: oodles of Klance ahead. 
> 
> I'm surprised I wrote a 6k word chapter--usually I keep them between 5 to 7 pages. This is more like 9 XD

Keith loathed to admit that he sought the help of Lance’s family in his romantic affairs. It wasn’t that he was _embarrassed_ by it—though that was entirely evident. It was mostly knowing how much his family knew of what Lance did. All the time. Lance’s sister Isabel knew more about Lance’s antics in Terra than Keith ever would. This was mostly because of how open they were, and how… _not_ open Keith was. 

Anything and everything Lance did was perfect in his mother’s eyes. She did everything she could to let him know he was beautiful in every way possible, down to his worst vices. “Would you prefer him to stay stressed?” she argued with Keith once on mentioning the time he heard about a brothel escapade Lance made. “It’s therapeutic!”

Keith determined Lance’s family would give any traditional parent—i.e. Keith’s _mother_ —a heart attack. He supposed he was thankful he met Lance after his mother’s unfortunate and untimely passing.

After the Queen passed away, Coran was suited with an apprentice whom he could entrust to take his place should anything occur. The transition would be slow-moving and gradual, but eventually Lance was expected to work with Keith until, well, until the day Keith died. That is, if everything went according to plan.

Which it didn’t.

Nothing ever goes according to plan.

It took approximately two months for Keith to become anything other than the cold, shitty, unresponsive shell the mourning process dunked him into. Losing his mother hurt more than he cared to admit, and it still did. It didn’t help that all of her responsibilities fell on him, and sometimes the pressure was crushing enough for him to curse her for leaving all _this_ for _him_ to deal with. The guilt of thinking such things would send him into an endless cycle of _blaming_ himself and his deceased mother. 

When he first met Lance, it’d been on one of his worser days when he spent all his time staring at the ceiling from the spot on his office couch. Lance, being as young as they both were, was intimidated until the point he saw Keith for the first time and snorted, “You’re just a kid. You should not be beating yourself up over things you can’t control yet.”

Coran nearly had a fit over Lance’s outburst, but Keith took care of that for him. He took the nearest book and chucked it blindly at Lance. He hardly thought to look at either of them until Coran shrieked, “Dear God!” a second before the same book collided with the wall above Keith.

He covered his face to avoid being hit by the book, and instantly propped himself up on his elbow to shout, “Are you out of your goddamn mind! Get out!”

“You’re the one who threw the book at me!” Lance snapped, and it was then that Keith realized who he was talking to. He’d forgotten that Coran’s apprentice was supposed to come in, and _this_ was what they gave him?

Lance looked to be straight out of university, still young enough to be considered the kid he claimed Keith to be. His hair was cropped short—naturally brown and naturally messy regardless of its length—and his stature was lean, skinnier than Keith. Back then, Lance was still recovering from taking care of himself for all those years in school, which meant rationing his mother’s home cooked meals to last for weeks. 

He was a goddamn beanpole with a goddamn ego the size of the castle. At least, that was Keith’s first impression of him.

Coran was about as red as his hair when he hastily pushed an unwilling Lance out the door, who was still shouting, “Book-throwing is a weak move! Punch me next time!”

At the time, Keith was thankful Coran refused to let Lance near the King until a week later for a more casual meeting. They met in Keith’s favorite courtyard, and the second Lance showed up Keith stood up to greet him. They shook hands, and with his other fist, Keith clobbered him in the side of the face—not enough to knock him down, but enough to leave a bruise behind. 

“How many people in your classes can say they were punched by the King of Altea?” Keith asked him as he shook out his burning hand, and watched Lance double-over cursing, hand clasped over the side of his face. 

To his surprise, Lance stood up laughing, if not wincing, and said, “I have to say, sir, I didn’t think you would take my advice.”

The snarky comment was enough to throw Keith off, and when it registered, he threw his head back and laughed for the first time in a long while. “You _are_ going to be my advisor some day—I have to start listening to you _some_ time.”

Keith determined to befriend Lance, and Lance being more than open about his friendliness, did little to hinder him. It took several days to make time outside of hosting guests, meetings with his generals, and wanting a second to relax, to actually sit down with Lance again, and even then he’d almost forgotten about Coran’s curious advisor. 

The three of them ate dinner together four nights after, and did so in one of the smaller dining rooms. It was a room filled with portraits and paintings that Keith’s grandfather collected, and he hoped that would prevent Lance from starting a food fight. On asking Coran about eating dinner with Lance, his advisor mentioned a food fight situation at the university Lance attended. Suffice to say that Lance started it.

Keith recalled the first thing he said to Lance as they sat down to eat. “For future reference—what is your favorite meal?”

Keith hadn’t expected Lance to smirk and lean an elbow on the table, saying, “Besides you?”

“ _Lance_ ,” Coran hissed from across the table. 

“Are you always so insufferable?” Keith asked, amused. 

“Only when I’m around gorgeous company—that means you too, Coran. You may try to ward me off with that mustache of yours, but I have _plenty_ of experience shaving off strangers’ mustaches,” Lance said, shaking his fork at his superior. 

“Remind me to lock my room at night,” Coran remarked with a patronizing scowl. Lance snickered just as the servant door opened, and three trays were laid in front of them.

“But anyway,” Lance started, waving his hands, “I am not a picky eater. I will eat just about anything you give me.” Keith narrowed his eyes at the suggestive look Lance sent his way, knowing that the three servants around them were passing each other wary looks.

They pulled the caps off of the trays and the waft of warm, spicy flavor made Keith sigh, delighted. Coran thanked the servants as they left, and once alone again, the three of them began to eat. 

Keith couldn’t remember what, exactly, was the meal that night. Though he could remember every single one of Lance’s inappropriate comments and how red Coran’s face was with embarrassment. The man probably thought it was a terrible idea to bring Lance out in public until he managed to reign in his sexual appetite. That was perhaps the main reason why Keith laughed at every single one joke, because he knew Coran would probably kick him under the table for it. 

“You do realize who it is you’re talking to?” Keith asked, raising an eyebrow at Lance.

The man swallowed down a bite of food before saying, “Of course. I’m talking to an eighteen year old boy who probably _never_ had a legitimate social life—and by that I mean going to parties and brothels—though, seventeen is the minimum age in a brothel, so you could have only spent a year doing that unless you had a killer reputation, which you do. I could take you to a _real_ party, sir.”

“Or you could host one here.”

“ _Keith_ ,” Coran hissed. “I would _not_ suggest you do that. You have a reputation to uphold.”

“Would you suggest I go to one outside the castle grounds?” Keith challenged. “And I heard somewhere that my mother hosted a party or two here, and I am _not_ saying it was filled with nobles and innocent entertainment.”

Coran set his jaw and turned his harsh stare on his pupil. Lance’s eyes went wide and he ducked his head down and ate a few more bites to avoid saying anything else. Keith said, “It would just be the one.”

His advisor sighed, and with a roll of his eyes asked, “Who would you invite?” Instantly Lance was back in spirits.

“My friends at the university would come—”

“The younger lords and noblewomen—”

“My older brother and sister; I’ve been to a few parties with them, they could help arrange things—”

“My training partners in archery and fencing—”

“Madam Jehanette’s Bartlett Hall, you know, over on the West Side where the river is.”

“The _Hall?_ ” Coran nearly choked, and given Lance’s excited nodding, Keith figured this was out of his own realm. “You would like Madam Jehanette to provide the entertainment?”

“Yes. It’s one of the classier establishments around,” Lance explained. “Madam Jehanette is… a family friend of mine. She would be more than happy to take part in this given her state of affairs recently. An ex-husband of her’s recently sued her for half her worth, and this would more than help her and her workers.”

“ _Family friend?_ ” they both blurted out, and instantly looked at one another in shock. After a moment, Keith said, “I am okay with this” while Coran shouted, “Absolutely _not_!” 

“King’s word rules over yours, Coran!” Lance declared, throwing his hands up. “I will take care of everything! You two continue work as usual—expect the party to be within a fortnight. And, sir, let me know what days work best with your schedule.”

Following the dinner, Keith didn’t see or speak to Lance for nearly a week. Little did he know neither had Coran. It wasn’t until Coran bolted into Keith’s office in a panic that they realized what, exactly, Lance was planning. “You _have_ to come see this,” Coran said. “It’s my apprentice, Lance, and that godforsaken party you two are planning.”

He didn’t bother asking, and simply followed after Coran as they two of them wove their way through the halls to one of the unused ballrooms in the castle. It was older, and not suitable for noblemen gatherings considering its lack of sufficient lighting in the nighttime. Its main source of light was the skylight overhead, and the four chandeliers positioned at the corners of the room. This area of the castle wasn’t fit for the rudimentary electricity in other sections. Any electricity that _was_ used in the castle was powered by the river current on the West Side—near where Lance’s _family friend_ was the madam to Bartlett Hall.

Keith slowly approached the doors, and hesitated at the threshold where he could see the mess Coran’s apprentice made. It wasn’t so much a mess as it was a project that involved elaborate tapestries hung from the walls, stages cutting through the middle, and a band shell being put in place on the far end. 

Lance called to work a large portion of Keith’s servant staff, and they all hurried here and there, posted on ladders and hanging up banners. Plumes of smokey red cloth accented the gothic structures and statues around the room, and draped over the sculptured models holding up the stone pillars. At the base of one of this magnificent structures, stood Lance. 

“We’ll have guards posted at any servant entrance in this room—and they _cannot_ take part in the festivities, that’s a given. We can’t have alcohol inhibiting them,” Lance was saying to one of Keith’s head guardsmen, the Lord General. _No wonder I haven’t seen him in a day_ , Keith mused as he eyed his Lord General. The man was nodding along with Lance, and about to follow him to an inlet between the curtains when Keith and Coran’s presence were made known. 

“What the hell is this?” Keith blurted out, gesturing his arms across the room. “Are those _poles_ on the stages?”

“You’ve come to see my work, haven’t you, sir?” Lance said, hands on his hips as he approached them. The Lord General saluted him as he approached as well. 

“Coran was concerned,” Keith confessed, _And I see why now_. 

“Well, there’s nothing to concern yourself over. Look here!” Lance hurried them over to one of the tables where papers were sprawled across, and a girl sat over them with an old-fashioned calligraphy pen and ink well. Lance spoke to her quietly and proceeded to take a dried sheet and hand it to them.

They were the invitations, and Keith had to say he was impressed with the outcome. Coran peered over his shoulder, and proceeded to glare at Lance. “This one is made out to Admiral Allura.”

“I heard she happens to be good friends with the King. I think she would enjoy herself,” Lance confessed with a shrug, taking the letter back and setting it among the finished pile. “If my calculations are correct, there should be… about a hundred fifty invitations going out, but twenty percent of those won’t be able to attend, so that would make it… about a hundred twenty guests total.”

“Good God,” Keith muttered under his breath.

“Did you sign off on the invitation list?” Coran asked Keith, and he was ashamed to say that he had. It was sent to his office several days prior, but it hardly felt like a hundred fifty people to him.

A hand touched his arm, and Lance drew Keith’s attention ahead of the stages. “And see here— _you_ will have the best view in the room,” he said, directing Keith to his place at the head of the room, in a chair he recognized from the conference room where his mother would sit and argue with her underlings. 

It was high-backed and crafts out of a dark, mahogany wood. It was cushioned and high off the ground, and as Keith sat in it, he tried to picture what Lance’s vision was. 

  


  


The night of the party, when the light from the skylight failed and stars shone overhead, the chandeliers were lit, and filtered through the reddish tapestries. The romantic atmosphere was warm and exciting, and made the buzz in Keith’s head all the more prominent. He couldn’t help but smile under his hand as he accepting the drink one of his servants handed him.

It was a shot glass, and a moment later he clinked the edge of it with Lance’s. “Cheers, sir,” he said, and Keith watched him knock it back. Keith had never done a shot before, and mimicked Lance’s display. It ran like fire down his throat, and burned the entire way down to his stomach. It boiled there, and set his limbs ablaze and eyes alight. 

Lance was dressed in fine, flowing clothes—not the sort of straight-lined coats Keith was used to seeing on him. It had a low-cut collar, untied and elbow-length, with a bluish-white pattern on the fabric. He determined it was for the purpose of letting one of the ladies curve her arms from behind his shoulders, and gently rub her hands over his chest. Keith glanced away when the girl spoke into Lance’s ear, and dipped her fingers underneath that low-cut collar of his.

“I think I’ll pass,” Lance said, “Unless the King…? Would possibly like some company?” at this, Keith glanced over at them, and the black-haired girl resting her head against the back of Lance’s hair. 

“Coran’s rules,” Keith reminded him, resting his elbow against the armrest and propping his head on his hand. The music felt like it was reverberating against the inside of his skull as he grinned, only to falter when a woman’s voice sounded behind him.

“As much as Keith loves women—such as myself—it doesn’t beat the company of men,” she said, and peered over the edge of his chair to see how the alcohol made it impossible for Keith to repress a blush. “Hello, Keith.”

“Allura,” he said, subduing a smirk as she ruffled his hair. 

“This is Allura?” Lance’s voice spoke up, and Keith looked over just as the man untangled himself from the lady to reach his hand over to the Admiral. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I am Coran’s—”

“Apprentice, yes, I’ve heard much about you. Your name was on my invitation—a note saying that this was all your idea and not this one’s.” She poked her thumb in Keith’s direction, where he looked away with a scowl.

Lance laughed, saying he didn’t remember putting _that_ on the invitations. That was mainly because Keith rifled through the cards before they were sent, just to ensure that Allura didn’t get the wrong idea about this whole affair. Though, he was surprised she came in such scandalous clothing. She was the sort to wear dresses and uniforms that clung around her neck and shoulders, but tonight her dress peaked through to show her collarbone, and looped at her sides to show her muscular frame.

“Have you danced with anyone yet, Keith?” she asked, resting a hand on his shoulder. Lance answered for him—a negative in that department. “Then you must have your first dance with me. Come on now.”

“Coran didn’t mention anything about not dancing,” Keith muttered under his breath, but loud enough for them to hear and laugh at. “Fine, I will dance with you.”

“And me afterwards?” Lance asked, an encouraging smile on his face as Allura pulled Keith past. Perhaps it was the alcohol in his system, but Keith agreed to it before descending the steps after his best friend.

Swing dancing was a common street dance in Altea, and one of the fun steps Keith learned in his dance classes. A fast beat picked up, and Keith swung Allura around in circles, sweeping her across the floor and creating a wide sweep of open space among their guests. They clapped and encouraged them, shouting and singing in a way that made Keith giddier than he’d ever been before. Allura’s captivating smile won her several other dancing partners, following the King’s display. 

Before that point, however, Allura kissed him on the cheeks and told him that she would keep an eye on him. Lance swept in and took her place, taking hold of Keith’s hands. 

Lance’s palms were cold, contrasting against the heat in the air, and the romantic frenzy of Madam Jehanette’s boys and girls wooing Keith’s guests. He kept his eyes focused on Lance’s as the man leaned in and asked, “Would you like to lead, or shall I?”

“You can.”

“What’ll it be then? I don’t want to make you dizzier than you already are with another swing dance,” Lance commented, laughing.

“No, no—it’s one of my favorites. And I don’t usually get to follow in that one,” Keith replied. 

The band paused during the break between Allura’s dance and Lance’s. Lance gestured to them to repeat the same beat, and soon Lance was coaxing Keith to take the steps forwards, backwards, spiraling around and about. He released a hand and drifted away, shoulders shifting one way after the other. He relaxed his steps, and let the music course through him, and give him a moment to match the flow of Lance’s hips.

The air combed through Keith’s hair when Lance carried him away and back again. His back hit a bit too hard against Lance’s chest, and knocked the breath out of him. “Sorry—I didn’t mean—” Keith started, stammering more than usual.

“It’s fine,” Lance laughed, pushing him forward and back again. Keith’s mind was running fast, trying to process how it felt to be flush against Lance’s chest, and the occasional tip of his hips against Keith’s. 

Soon, Keith was flying again, and they returned to their usual stance as the song ended. The crowd around them cheered, startling Keith back to reality. He realized he’d been staring at Lance, and promptly dropped his hands in order to hold the side of his head. “I am a bit dizzier than before,” he confessed, giggling. _Giggling_. It had to be the shot he and Lance took.

“Would you like me to escort you back to—”

“No, no. I want to stay down here,” Keith interrupted, looking around them at all the people, and the gorgeous ladies and gentlemen from the Hall. “Coran didn’t say anything about sitting a bit closer to the stages.”

Lance was so excited about getting Keith a closer look that he had a path made to the chairs, and had a word or two with one of the workers. Lance’s classmates were with them, and encouraging the workers with pockets of coins and paper money, threatening to buy Keith a lap dance or two now that he was actually on the floor. 

Keith let one of Lance’s girl friends sit with him, and whenever the man on stage came close enough, she would reach out her hand to him and try and get Keith to come forward. Lance his friends knew half of the workers by name.

Keith had never laughed so hard in his life when Allura found them. He was giddy out of his mind after an incident in where the man, encouraged by the people around them, tried to get Lance to join him. Allura found them just as Lance was climbing onto the stage, a roar going up around them. Allura took a seat beside Keith, completely sober and still howling with laughter at the sight of Coran’s apprentice being stripped of his shirt. 

“This is unbelievable!” she shouted. “Why aren’t you monitoring him?”

“He’s supposed to be monitoring me!” Keith argued, falling against Allura and giggling, “Can I go up there?”

“No! No, no, no. Besides, the view’s fine from here,” she said, biting her lip as the girl next to Keith was taken up on stage by one of the ladies. The girl was friends with Lance, and they danced on staged, shirtless, and as the workers vacated their area, other classmates started climbing up—some too drunk to even make it there—and started shaking the entire stage from one end to the other.

At some ungodly hour in the morning, Keith had one arm slung over Allura’s shoulders, and the other over Lance’s. Lance’s other arm was clinging onto a guard that helped escort them to the second floor. After drunkenly slurring plans for a slumber party, Allura chaperoned them in Keith’s room, and the three of them slept sprawled out over his bed.

Keith was hungover the entire day after, having never gotten so drunk in his life, and stayed in bed with Allura and Lance. Coran refused to smell the alcohol on their breaths—though, Allura didn’t have a drop of it—and so refused to see them that day. He did send a note with their breakfast of protein, saying that eggs and water were the best way to combat a crazy night like that. 

Keith comfortably leant against Lance for support as the both of them ate as much as their stomachs could handle. Allura laid at their feet, reading letters she put off the night before. Lance argued that he was completely well enough to feed Keith. “You’ve seen me almost-naked and now you can’t handle the thought of me feeding you a bit of toast?” Lance complained.

“I’m leaning against you, aren’t I?”

“Just let me feed you.”

“No.”

“I defied my boss and bought you a lap dance—we had a bonding moment! What more do I have to do for you to let me feed you?” Lance said, and after making brief eye contact with Allura, Keith grudgingly agreed and opened his mouth compliantly. 

After finishing the plate, Keith said, “And I do _not_ remember the lap dance part. Who was it?”

“His name is Ivon—he’s worked for Madam Jehanette for four years now.”

“I’ll have to send him a thank you, and also a note to apologize for not remembering it.”

“He will be a legend at the Hall, all thanks to you.”

“That lap dance was confidential—let’s call it a myth.”

“A legend.”

“A myth.”

“ _Legend_.”

“ _Whatever_ , as long as people don’t really believe him,” Keith decided, sinking back against the pillows. “Besides, that’s the first and last time I’ll ever get a lap dance.”

“Unless you want me to give you one,” he said, and Allura snorted at their feet and shoved Lance’s leg. “ _Kidding_. I was kidding—sort of.” Lance snickered, leaning back and stretching his arm against the pillows behind Keith. He admitted to himself that he didn’t mind Lance’s overconfidence and want to please Keith. In fact, he relished in it. Besides, it wasn’t like either of them were being serious.

Right?

  


  


So when Keith thought about how much Lance loved his family, given their quirks and lack of traditional means, he realized it was the best place to start when it came to winning Lance back. Coran thought it was a terrible idea to even _leave_ the castle grounds, or even set foot where Lance’s family lived on the West Side. So Keith dressed down from his usual apparel and tied back his hair into a messy ponytail, and topped it with a hat one of his servants provided. He asked if he would fit in on the West Side, and after a few adjustments, his servant deemed him ready. 

Allura knew all about his plans, and accompanied him for the drive. They took one of the less conspicuous carriages, and after the fifteen minute drive, stepped out onto the cobble streets where Lance came from. 

It was a relatively fine area, with cute shops and storefronts. It was the sort of style Lance was known for—chic and exciting. There were people up and about in the main square, but this far away from the business, they were met with the three-story tall Bartlett Hall in all its glory. 

The front of Bartlett Hall was unassuming and disguised in colorful paints and even a small work of flowers in the pots by the windows. The windows were all obscured inside, shielded by curtains and tapestries. The main door opened as they approached, and a girl exited and started down the street away from them. It was dark inside, but they weren’t planning on entering through that door.

“You’ve been here before, right?” Keith asked Allura, who nodded.

“Yes, I wanted to see what sort of family Lance came from,” she answered. “She’s nicer than I expected.”

“She’s a madam, what do you expect?” Keith whispered, walking down a ways to a smaller door, but no less colorful. It had their house number on the front, and the silver moulds accented the bright blue wood and knocker. Allura knocked for him, and stepped back with her hands behind her back, discretely touching the hilt of her sword in the process.

After a moment, a series of footsteps sounded behind the door, and soon it crept open a tad—held back by the chain lock. The face was familiar, and Keith smiled at the girl on the other end. “Keith, Allura! Come in, come in!” she shouted, unlocking the door and ushering them inside. 

Once in, the girl embraced them both, and Keith commented, “You’re nearly taller than me, Isabel.”

“It’s the heels, trust me. Come on, my mum’s expecting you,” she said, hurriedly locking the multiple bolts on their door before showing the way. Allura noted the door again, a bit nervous, before following along.

Keith never visited the Bartlett family, for it was always the other way around. They visited him frequently in the castle, and seemed to understand the reasons he had for not seeing them in their own domaine. So it was expected that the many Bartlett family members were eager to show him around their home, if not the brothel. The younger two gave him tours of their rooms, showed off their art pieces and talents, and encouraged him to speak other languages with them. 

At last, after being swept back to the main floor by Lance’s eldest sister Isabel, his mother came to greet him. She was a stunning woman for not only her striking features, but also her sharp tongue and aristocratic air. She took Allura’s hand as well as Keith’s and led them through the hall to the dining room. The kids were told to stay upstairs, though Isabel joined them and sat alongside her mother near the head of the table.

“It’s nice to see you again, Jehanette,” Keith commented, smiling. “Has your son come to visit you yet?”

“Yes, he came here a few days ago,” she answered. “Just before you sent that letter to me.”

Keith pursed his lips and glanced at Isabel, who watched him solemnly, just as stoic as her mother could be. Just as she was then. “What’s happened with the two of you?” Jehanette asked. “My son hasn’t been this upset since he came to tell me he was being sent to Terra.”

“I know,” Keith admitted, looking to his hands as he clasped them together. “And both times it was my fault.”

“You can’t help it,” Allura murmured beside him. “You’re just doing your job.”

“But I agreed with you sending him away,” Jehanette interrupted. “We have had this discussion before. But that is in the past now. What is in the present?”

“We can’t discuss the details,” Allura started. “Which we kept from your son. He found out about it without our knowing and blames Keith for not telling him sooner.”

Jehanette sighed drearily, and gestured to her daughter, who then got up and put the tea kettle on and started putting together a pot of black tea. Keith declined the offer, but Allura accepted a cup. After watching the both of them for some time, Jehanette spoke up, “You realize my son often confuses his professional life with his personal one. So you cannot completely blame yourself for his mistakes.”

“But telling _him_ that wouldn’t exactly put me in his favor. It’s more likely that he would just get angrier,” Keith said to her, and she shrugged coyly, accepting the teacup Isabel held out to her. “I just… don’t want him to think that he can’t trust me.”

“And can he?” she inquired, quirking an eyebrow. “Tell me you’d be the most honest individual with him on everything from confidential correspondence with the Barrier to how many times you got off at the thought of him these past three years.”

“ _Mother_ ,” Isabel complained, sliding a cup of tea across the table to Allura, who’d gone as red as a beet sitting next to Keith, who was even worse off. 

“There’s a difference between being honest with someone, and being obsessive,” Keith stressed, pressing his hands to his skull to try and quell the heat that pooled there. “Having a personal life is important, which is why I don’t pester Lance about what he does when I’m not around. And besides, his job is to keep me informed in what he knows concerning my job—it doesn’t necessarily flow both ways yet as it does with Coran and I.”

“Are you suggesting my son is obsessive?” she remarked coolly.

“No, no—not at all. I’m just saying I don’t expect to know everything he knows, and he shouldn’t expect the same from me, especially when it concerns sensitive matters,” he explained, running his hands through his hair. “This is… _ridiculous_. How can I even _talk_ to him when he refuses to see me in the first place? I haven’t seen him since it happened. Even _Hunk_ doesn’t know where he is—unless he’s lying to me, but Hunk wouldn’t lie to me unless—” Keith stopped for a moment, turning his eyes to Jehanette who raised her eyebrows.

“And you were suggesting _Lance_ was obsessive. This is exactly why I can’t _stand_ boys,” she said, and Isabel nodded. “Why do you suppose I paid for Lance and his brother to go to school? Do not answer that one,” she added pointedly, noting Allura’s pursed expression.

Keith hushed them, glancing at the door before hissing, “Lance is _here_ , isn’t he? You never said anything about him staying the night or not.” 

“The kids showed you around the house. You saw he wasn’t here,” Jehanette countered. “And I simply said he _came here_.”

Keith ignored her, rising from his seat. Allura followed suit, saying that she would check the second floor if he swept the first floor. They were about to disperse when Jehanette stood, threatening them, “Do _not_ snoop around my home. You two are guests here, regardless of your stature. I expect you to act like it.”

“Please, ma’am,” Allura said. “Let us just speak with him for a minute. If not Keith, then let me. Lance and I are just friends.”

Jehanette glowered at her, and Keith determined that neither of them would be getting discounts at her bordello anytime soon. Eventually, she leant a hand on the table and nodded to Isabel. The girl got up and left, and Jehanette said, “Allura may go. Keith, you stay here with me.”

Keith begrudgingly took a seat, staring after Allura as she followed Isabel down the hall and out of view. He sat with his hands tense against the chair armrests, and wondered if there were any vents in the dining room through which Lance could hear them. He came up empty handed, though, and realized that perhaps it was just something the castle had for Coran’s spying purposes. 

Jehanette noticed his anxious behavior and commented, “Do not mistake me, my King, I believe you are a decent ruler given your age. And while that may be the case, not just _anyone_ deserves my son.”

“I am quite aware of that part,” Keith answered tersely. “No need to remind me.”

“I never said you weren’t deserving,” she countered, swirling her finger around the rim of her cup. “Whatever Lance does or says, I want you to know he is capable of being forgiving. Though, you probably already know this. Considering he forgave you for sending him to Terra for these past three years.”

“You said you agreed with my decision—”

“It wasn’t entirely your decision, sir,” she told him, shaking her head. “Don’t make it seem so. You are not to blame for it, and Lance knows that. It’s why he forgave you in the first place.”

“I hardly think he has,” he said. “Sometimes I think he will just keep bringing it up for the rest of our lives. Though, I have no intention of sending him back. He missed you terribly.”

She grinned at him over the rim of her cup before taking a sip and falling silent. It wasn’t until a few minutes later that he realized why she looked so smug. He blushed a bit and wished he had a cup of tea to hide his smile in as well. 

When Allura returned, it was in the company of Isabel and Lance. He wasn’t exactly dressed in his Sunday best, but Keith hardly noticed his shabby appearance when he was too busy scrambling out of his seat to apologize. 

“Lance—I-I’m so sorry, and I… I know I’ve had to apologize to you more than usual since you came home, but—”

“Shut up,” Lance muttered, scratching the back of his head as he glanced at Allura and said, “It was wrong of me to be angry at you. I am sorry that every time we fight it’s over work-related topics, and mostly my fault.”

“It isn’t your fault, Lance,” Keith argued, accepting the hand that Lance reached out with. “Would you come back home? To the castle, I mean.”

He recalled how Lance smirked, and reeled Keith in for a hug. “Yes, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sometimes I think he will just keep bringing it up for the rest of our lives." Honestly, Keith, if you coulda made a slip-up, this is one of the better ones XD Way to go dude.
> 
> Also, did you guys see that coming? Lance being related to a madam? Because honestly I didn't even know until AFTER the party scene XD It worked out perfectly considering his personality and level of affection *wink wink nudge nudge*


	14. Galra Steel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was accidentally posted AFTER chapter 15 was posted because I'm a noob and post manually, I don't set up schedules D: So sorry about everyone who ended up reading chap. 15 before chap. 14 MY BAD. More panic about this on the End Notes lol

Pidge folded her arms over her chest and tried to hide behind Allura through the duration of the meeting. Every now and then Keith would glance at her, and if Shiro happened to be looking at Allura, he’d notice Pidge and look guilty as all hell at the sight of her bandaged shoulder. Just sitting there made it sting like a bitch, and as it felt like her skin was bubbling, the heat of it would raise to her face whenever she caught Lance glaring at her. She loathed to be among people who loathed her as well.

When Shiro started off, his voice was calculated, and his words chosen cautiously. Because of this, his entire recollection of the village sounded like one big painful affair.

“Do you suspect Matthew would be in one of these villages?” Coran asked, his worry showing through the crease lines above his brow.

Shiro hesitated and shook his head. “I… don’t know. It doesn’t seem likely—only recent prisoners are chained to the trees, it seems. As in, the village was recently captured, and its inhabitants were imprisoned and still there at the time I arrived. I’m under the impression that the prisoners become expendable after a certain period of time—given up to the vices of the soldiers, such as murder or rape.”

“That’s awful,” Allura murmured beside Pidge. “You never… participated in this corruption?”

“No—No, I did not,” Shiro quickly said, shaking his head. He furrowed his brow and continued. “I’m under the impression that my stance excluded me from social norms, and I was given the authority to demand the same from my troop. None of my men tormented the prisoners, and if they did I executed them.”

His final words were cold. Pidge stared at his profile in shock, wondering how it was possible for Shiro to have such control over Galra soldiers. She found it hard to believe that Zarkon would allow a man who was once a prisoner to become a commander in his conquering army.

“And your superior allowed this?”

“He allowed the torture of the prisoners—I’m sure he facilitated it,” Shiro answered. “It seemed he disapproved of me being there, so I assume there is someone else involved, who was in favor of me and a step above my superior.”

“What did he look like? Do you recall?” Keith asked.

Shiro’s stance hadn’t changed until that moment, and as he shifted his weight, the chain Hunk held onto clanked. “There… wasn’t much human left to him, sir. It was beyond the extent of my arm, what they did to him. His flesh was _purple_ and and his eyes were pure white. I imagine it was the effects of excessive sorcery, but he was unreasonably strong because of it. It’s… hard to describe.”

“There are a few similar cases soldiers from Terra uncovered,” Lance spoke up, and Pidge nearly choked at the sound of him sounding serious again. It was as if they were back in the council room, and with just a simple clap, Lance captured the attention of everyone. “We have five corpses in our custody—well, _Terra’s_ custody—that appear as you just described, Shiro. The transition is gradual, and happens in stages. Your’s would be considered the second stage.”

“What makes you say the second?” Allura asked. “It’s just his arm.”

“No, it’s more than that,” Lance explained. “Galra steel burns through everything, and it would be considered impossible for a soldier to even holster it at his side for more than a day. The sorcery to combat the steel’s capabilities effects the entire body, not just the arm.”

“By then why… would only this arm be clean?” Shiro asked, raising his arm slightly where his unscarred skin showed at his wrists. 

“There are some soldiers I’ve spoken to who claim that some Galra soldiers are able to cut through flesh with their bare hands,” Allura spoke up, drawing all attention away from Lance and to her. “I thought they were all stories to scare new recruits, but perhaps they are true. I have heard several accounts of this, from different sources unrelated to one another. In all cases most eyewitnesses were killed by the man or woman with hands that could cut through flesh.”

Silence followed her statement, and Pidge found herself staring at the cuffs on Shiro’s wrists. If Allura’s statement was true, then not even shackles could keep Shiro at bay. Not even a cell in the keep could.

“Does that sound familiar to you?” Keith finally asked, addressing Shiro.

He hesitated before shaking his head. “I feel as though if I had that capability, I would have used it during the time I attacked Hunk and Pidge.”

“But it doesn’t seem to be something Galra people use often,” Pidge spoke up, sitting forward now. “It must be a self-defense mechanism you would use when your life was in serious danger. It makes me think that it might drain the user, much like how sorcery expects a payment in return. Sorcerers generally have to regenerate strength for weeks on end after extensive use.”

“It seems likely,” Allura said. “Perhaps it’s even more so for people like us who aren’t accustom to magic, or grew up using it. Sorcerers are expected to exercise their practice, while people like I’ve heard in stories use it in short bursts.”

“This is a lot of guesswork,” Coran commented. “We don’t have much evidence to support the claim that Shiro’s arm is the human equivalent of Galra steel.”

“Perhaps if we threaten his life,” Lance suggested, and instantly Allura snapped, “ _Lance_ , you can’t suggest things like that.”

“But Pidge suggested that it works as a self-defense mechanism,” he countered, and Pidge stared at him, trying to figure out why the hell he was agreeing with her if he hated her at the moment. He crossed his arms and glanced at Shiro. “I can’t say training Pidge would be the equivalent of a death match, but maybe getting into the zone of fighting might help? Possibly?”

“No, no. I couldn’t,” Shiro insisted, shaking his head. “That’s all the more reason to avoid letting me train her.”

“Look, Shiro, I wasn’t entirely certain of it when she suggested it for the first time,” Lance started, “but staying in a cell would make matters worse. Being too _afraid_ to live out of your comfort zone isn’t living at all, and it certainly won’t help you combat your problems. And I’m not exactly a doctor, but this is my standpoint on the matter now.”

Pidge stared at him, and how Lance paused in the end, and dropped his gaze to Keith’s desk. Shiro did the same, looking down at his clenched hands. She noted his straight brow, and how it tensed under Lance’s words. “I would be there every step of the way,” Allura spoke up. “And I’ll have you know, there’s a reason I am an admiral.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen her take down ten people in less than a minute,” Hunk affirmed, and Lance chuckled a little at that.

“I’ve gotten hit by her before. She really knocks the breath right out of me—literally and figuratively,” he said, holding a hand to his heart and glancing fondly at her. She scowled at him, getting up from the chair. Lance cowered, and shrieked when she slapped him across the arm. 

There was so much commotion going on, Pidge nearly missed Shiro’s soft smile at watching them bicker. At that point, he glanced towards her, and she smiled back. He nodded, and it was enough to convince her that he’d do it. He would train her. 

Pidge leapt out of her seat and hugged Shiro around his shackled arms. He laughed, resting his head over hers and saying, “We’ll start when your shoulder heals up.”

  


  


As it turned out, Pidge’s shoulder’s third-degree burns didn’t heal as fast as she anticipated. She wished the healing process was controlled via personal ambition, because she wanted to fight as soon as possible. During the time it took for it to heal, however, she took her anger out at Hunk’s father’s blacksmithing shop. Of course, she couldn’t weld or pound hammers against metal like Hunk could, but she could at least dink around with the parts he put together.

“This mould should work for the flintlock,” he explained to her, setting the block on the table and pulling apart the two pieces that created it. There was an opening in the center, accessed via the hole at the top. He filled it with scalding raw metal, glowing orange from the fire, and Pidge watched from afar with a mask covering her face. 

Shiro stood on the far end of the room, near the open wall looking out to the street. The glow of the fire radiated around the expanse of the room, and caught on the material shielding his eyes. “It’s awfully nice of your father to lend us his workspace,” he commented.

“Yeah, my pops is just excited that I’m using it for something,” Hunk confessed. “Let’s just say I was a difficult apprentice when I was a kid.”

“Well, you seem to have a talent for it,” Pidge said, grinning as the mould finally cooled, and Hunk dunked the piece into a vat of water. A cloud of steam rose up around Hunk’s gloved arm, and soon they were confronted with the slender metal trigger. “Perfect.”

“Thanks, I try.” Hunk flipped back his helmet and grinned at them. “Just, you know, a dozen more to go.”

They already had several of the parts put together—it was just a matter of welding them into place. Pidge set to work putting the puzzle together, and figuring where the screws would attach to the wooden handle, and the piece accenting the barrel. It took the remainder of the day to use Hunk’s custom-made moulds to finish the prototype, and then another day to fit it all together. It took a week to actually prepare it for a first test-run.

“Shiro should test it, since he has an invisible arm,” Hunk suggested as they all stared at the gun on the table, and voted on who would risk their hand to use it.

“We could make a contraption to set it off for us,” Lance said. “You know, like the thing Pidge talked about with the cannons. Attach it to a cord and tug on it—that could work, right?”

“We won’t know if it has any aim,” Pidge countered. “It will just fly haywire.”

“Would you prefer the kickback to take out my eye?” Shiro questioned.

“No… well, okay, we’ll make a contraption,” she decided, and took the gun from the table. Hunk followed her to the supply shed, and together they utilized a vice clamp from his father’s shop, twine, and a hardy metal pole.

They dug a hole in the ground at the castle’s training field intended for archery. They secured the pole in the ground, attached the clamp to it with the gun facing the target. Pidge gingerly tied the twine to the trigger and gave it slack, walking back to a far, far, _far_ distance. Just to be safe.

“Who wants to do the pleasure of setting it off?” she asked, and while everyone remained silent, Allura jumped up, arm raised. 

Admiral Allura hurried forward and took the string from Pidge. Without wasting a second, she yanked on it, and all at once the loudest sound imaginable tore at their eardrums. It sounded like Pidge had her ear against the opening of a cannon when it went off. Minutes afterwards, their ears were still ringing, and the gun had ricocheted off the contraption and lay smoking at their feet. 

“Holy shit,” Lance shouted, twisting a finger around in his ear. “At least if it doesn’t shoot, we know we can deafen the Galra!”

Their second prototype was fitted with a device to muffle the blast, and a heavier barrel that wouldn’t get destroyed. The wood was fortified with Allura’s suggestion of fire-resistant sorcery, and seemed to be promising. The amount of viewers on the training fields grew with each test run, and the amount of earplugs doubled. However, their second run involved Allura yanking the cord, and not a sound happening other than the click of the device working, but no explosion. The touchhole wasn’t functioning when they attempted to light it manually.

Their third prototype had an improved flintlock and venting mechanism through the touchhole. The blast was deafening, even _with_ earplugs, and left the barrel charred with gunpowder. They used the same prototype a second time— _after_ manually cleaning it out. It would take time on the battlefield to clean it out, so they aimed to fix this on their fourth prototype.

The bullets they used embedded the training field wall more than sixty feet away. Pidge measured the depth of the bullet holes, and made a mental note to test it on Galra armor.

One of Allura’s archers attended the fifth shooting, and accepted the task of being the first human-operated test run. They fitted him with a heavy-duty glove and armor and a fire-resistant helmet. There was a Galra chest plate propped up on the archery target.

He positioned himself as he would in archery, and stared down the length of the gun. “Support your arm with your free hand,” Pidge suggested, and the lad did so. 

When the gun went off, the archer stumbled and fell under the force, and instantly Allura shouted and ran towards him. Pidge and Hunk gasped, clinging onto one another as they waited for the verdict. The archer got up off the ground, arm intact, and gun still in hand. The barrel was smoking, but his hand was not. His arm was not. He was fine.

“Oh thank _God_ ,” Lance blurted out beside them, removing his earplugs. 

Pidge gasped and started running forward. “Check the target! Check the target!” 

She met the assistants halfway through the field to see the Galra armor. The archer made a dead hit to the crest on the chest—a clean hole straight through. She leapt up laughing and shouting, “We did it! We did it!”

She took the armor and ran it back to Hunk, who hollered and held it over their heads. “This is incredible!” he yelled, striking up a cheer around the training field. Pidge spun around just as Allura pulled the archer towards them, and as Hunk hugged her, he reeled all of them in. She grabbed for Shiro’s hand and pulled him in, and soon one massive group-hug commenced, and Pidge couldn’t be happier. 

This took four weeks, and following the events, Admiral Allura completed her visit, and prepared to take her leave.

  


_Pidge: WHEN YOU FINALLY ACCOMPLISH SOMETHING USEFUL FOR THE WAAARRRR.  
_

  


“You have been… unimaginably kind to Pidge,” Shiro confessed, “given all that’s happened within the past month.”

Allura smiled at him, and her sharp Altean armor gleamed as she shifted to look directly at him. Shiro couldn’t help the smile he shared with her, and how much he wished she’d stay behind. Somehow she managed to make anyone in her presence feel at home, even the few times she visited him in the cell. Twice, actually—he counted. Much like the King, she had a reputation to uphold, and visiting prisoners wasn’t particularly something a person of her stature would be seen doing. 

But since leaving the keep behind, he managed to ask her to accompany him on walks, when Pidge was busy elsewhere. They were doing just that on the day of her expected departure, and a stroll around the castle grounds seemed nice until the clouds started rolling in. They stood atop a hill, watching the deep blue sky darken, casting over the sun and dousing them in a melancholy light.

“I just wanted to thank you for that. It means a lot to me—and Pidge,” he added, clasping his hands in front of him. 

She snickered and reached a hand over to his arm. She dislodged it and held it before her, lacing her fingers through his. “Well, I am glad to say I met the two of you. You are both remarkable. You will make Altea proud, Takashi Shirogane,” she told him, and gently kissed his knuckles. Her gloved hand was warm between his scarred fingers, and the leather tender against his skin. “I apologize that I could not be there for Pidge’s training. I know I promised to be there, but I believe you two will get on well.”

He didn’t even want to think of training Pidge without Allura there. The thought made his chest hurt, and his guilty conscience to flare up. Allura had been a figure of security where that subject festered inside him. But it was wrong to believe that Allura—or anyone—would be able to restrain him if he were to have another episode. Shiro just had to believe that he’d be able to restrain himself.

“Do not look so serious,” she interrupted his thoughts, stepping around to stand before him, and take his face between her hands. “ _You_ are strong. Stronger than you think,” she told him sternly.

She dipped his head forward and kissed his forehead. He shut his eyes and leant against her, placing his hands over her arms and holding on tightly. The material at her elbows was flexible and leathery, unlike the metal armor strapped to her forearms and biceps. “I will see again you in a year, but expect letters.”

“Expect the same,” he answered with a sad smile. 

He raised his head slightly, so their eyes were level, and with a simple tilt, he could press their lips together. He did, for no more than the brief moment it took for Allura to respond and curve her fingers along the edge of his jawline. 

As their lips left one another, they both smiled and Allura laughed, leaning in again and kissing him across his cheeks and over his scar. He leaned in to her affection, and hugged her when he could at last. At that point, he dared to open his eyes, and realize they were being watched by the big fellow Hunk.

“Uh…” Hunk started, stammering awkwardly before saying, “Maybe I should… _leave_ …” 

Allura stepped back from Shiro and sighed. “What is it, Hunk?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said, shaking his head frantically, hands behind his back. “It’s just—your soldiers are wondering where you are. They’re ready to leave when you are.”

She cursed under her breath, patting a hand on Shiro’s shoulder as she started towards Hunk and down the path. Over her shoulder, she called out, “Farewell, Shiro!” 

He slumped his shoulders forward and sighed dreadfully, aware that Hunk was still awkwardly shuffling between them and at last decided to leave. Shiro followed after him, wishing he could have spent another minute or two in Allura’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SLAIN. I will myself to die. I can't believe I posted these last two chapters out of order--whelp, now you know Allura's gone, and that explains Shiro's awkwardness in the next chapter XD Also, I'm sure now you can piece together certain parts of the following chapter with this one. I am eternally sorry for mixing up the chapter numbers and confusin' the heck otta peeps D: This is like the fourth occurrence of this happening. This isn't even unusual anymore. The amount of SPOILERS dear LORDE.
> 
> Anyway, proceed onto Pidge's Misadventures and Shiro's Misfortunes. That's the alternative title for this book. Pidge's Misadventures and Shiro's Misfortunes. Also Lance's Mischief and Hunk's... Mis... Misfits?


	15. Smol But Ready To Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the beloved Pidge Gunderson takes part in Shiro's daily training regimen, and goes from smol to swol in the span of two months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER WASN'T SUPPOSED TO COME OUT BEFORE THE "Galra Steel" CHAPTER. So there's a bit of a spoiler you're getting from reading the end of this chapter, BUT NO WORRIES JUST SKIP BACK TO CHAPTER 14.

Pidge had a check up with the physician and castle sorcerer to aid in the healing process. Her shoulder was starting to turn out worse than she expected, and the skin was deemed to be perpetually wrinkled, bubbly, cracked-looking, and just overall whiter than her usual skin. In the beginning, there were charred spots here and there that were completely numb, and when the physician cleaned them up, it left pimple-like marks where the skin was cut out. It looked awful when she stared at it in the mirror, and she was starting to get sick of the loose-fitted shirts. They got caught on things and were easy to spill food on, especially when she had limited movement in her left shoulder.

Shiro was there with her after the physician had her put on a sleeveless gown and unwrapped the wound. She spent several minutes with a sorcerer’s hands over her skin, and felt tingly and itchy during the exam. 

“The burn is healing well. It will be best to keep it out in open air for a bit now—you can wrap it when you go to sleep if you feel uncomfortable going without it,” the sorcerer determined, removing her hands.

“Is there any way to get rid of the scar?” Shiro asked them. Pidge looked at the sorcerer’s work as she revealed a slightly better version of the wound. At least the bubbles were gone.

Pidge noticed how the physician glanced at Shiro’s arm—the one that was clear of any scars—as if they expected her to know the Galra’s secret to perfect skin. “No, I’m afraid not. Our healers are trying our best, sir.”

“And I thank you for that,” Pidge added. “It means a lot to me.”

The woman nodded to her, blushing as she declared that they were free to go. Pidge’s clothes were laid out on the opposite table, and Shiro left with the sorcerer and physician. She was careful as she unclothed, pulled on her shirt, and tied the strings at the collar. It felt strange having the flesh on her shoulder exposed to the material, and to feel the air pass over it as she walked out of the room. 

Shiro was waiting for her outside the door, and asked her how she felt. “Better. Really good, actually,” she answered.

“That’s good to hear,” he said with a slight smile. “I talked to them for a minute. Another few days and you should be able to start training.”

She rolled her shoulders a bit. It felt like a really, _really_ bad sunburn. Or like someone poured boiling water on it. “I don’t know about that,” she confessed, disappointed by her own answer. “But we will see.”

She slept several days on it before the sorcerer’s magic started to _actually_ kick in. Soon, she had full range of motion, even if it was tender if pressed on too harshly. It made helping Hunk in his father’s shop easier, and she began endurance training in the early mornings with Shiro. They would run laps around the castle grounds just like she used to do in the Garrison. Of her physical skills, running was one of her better traits. In fact, even Shiro had a tough time keeping pace with her after she got back into the habit of running. Last year, after rigorous training with some of her troop members, she participated in a half-marathon that would win her an extra serving at mealtimes. She didn’t win—that was for sure—but she got third. 

Pushups put stress on her shoulder, but not enough to make her complain. They began strength training, and toning the muscles she hadn’t exercised since Shiro found her. She was still weak compared to experienced soldiers like Shiro and Hunk, though she couldn’t exactly compare herself to them. They were monstrous in size, while she, well, was still the size of a child. 

“I’m surprised you can lift as much as you do,” Hunk commented one day. “Pushup contest?”

She laughed and said, “You’re on.” They dropped to the floor instantly and started pushups while Shiro ran a hand down the side of his face and mumbled, “Unbelievable.” Pidge won the contest by ten, simply because she had less weight to carry and a competitive streak.

Fighting started with a punching bag. She drilled for several hours in the morning, and again before dinner. Her movements became less stiff and strained as the days went on, and her wound healed. Shiro called it kickboxing, and at the end of the day she was tired, and by the morning, she could barely move.

Her morning and night routines began when Shiro would push her out of bed—literally. At first he wouldn’t have to, because she still had energy. But then _kickboxing_ and _drills_ happened, and she struggled to even lift her eyelids until she was staring up at Shiro from the floor in a daze. “I’m up, I’m up,” she would declare, holding out a hand for him to help her up. He always did, without fail. He would also ruffle her hair, without fail. 

They went for a run then, and afterwards he force-fed her breakfast. Then, after spending sufficient amount of time letting the food settle, the sun would start to rise and they’d be outdoors if the weather was right, with Shiro’s training pads and punching bag. They’d start drills to improve her speed, in which Shiro would strap the pads to his hands and coax her to count out her rate of hits per minute. They wouldn’t finish until she beat her last record the day before. By this time, Hunk may or may not be awake, and keep time for them. 

The punching bag became her worst enemy. Her shins were so bruised by the time they finished at the end of a week that Shiro gave her a break to heal her hands as well. Even _with_ wraps and pads, they still stung when she clenched them. No wonder they had to wait until her shoulder healed. She hurt all over now.

They didn’t start combat fighting skills until Shiro deemed her “ready”. She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but it took a month of training to get there. She imagined he was just trying to put off fighting her during that time, and since Allura left, she knew he was nervous. He didn’t want to hurt her more than he already had, so she didn’t push him.

“Today we’ll start self-defense,” Shiro said after shoving her out of bed. She was still too dazed to understand what he meant by that until she came out ready for a run, and realized that they were done with that. And it was already sunny out. Her entire day was off kilter from that point onward.

“Your greatest weapons are your elbows,” he told her, gesturing for her to lift up her arms, her hands to her neck. “Any regular punch could break your hand, regardless of how strong you are. The best places to aim are the nose and cheek—avoiding areas with obvious bone like the forehead and jaw area. Being as small as you are, it might depend on your opponent who you end up using these moves on. I can’t say I had many instructors telling me how to attack people taller than me,” he explained with a shrug, and she scowled.

“I’ll grow.”

“Shortness runs in your family, Pidge, don’t convince yourself otherwise,” he told her with a laugh, ruffling her hair. She dropped her arms to her sides and frowned. “Tell me what the Garrison taught you about weak points and where to target your hits.”

She demonstrated a few of the self-defense moves her instructors taught her, ranging from abdominal punches to kicks and how to maneuver an attacker’s weight. He played the dummy for her, and let her slow-motion hits knock him backwards and to the ground. 

“So you have the basics down. That’s good,” he concluded. “We’ll just work on location attacks—as in, where the attacker is at the time, or what position you’re in.”

At this point, Hunk was there and watching from afar. Shiro called him in to play the dummy, and after demonstrating a few attacks on him, Pidge practiced them on Hunk. There were instances where Hunk was running towards her, arms raised or arms lowered, aiming for a kick, a practice sword in hand, a fake shiv, dagger, axe—Shiro had plans for all of them. Thankfully, though, the weapons were wooden, so every now and then when Hunk laid a hit on her, she just got the wind knocked out of her lungs. Every time Hunk apologized profusely.

It took _hours_ to get through the usual fighting positions. After a lunch break, they proceeded with attacks that had Pidge on the ground, and Hunk attacking from above. She would lunge him over her head with her feet, or wrestle him onto his back—sometimes taking him off guard with her strength. Sometimes the momentum would send them both rolling and laughing, forgetting that this could be a deadly situation, and Shiro was always there to mutter, “Unbelievable,” under his breath.

“If Hunk has your hands held down, what do you do?” Shiro asked.

“Knee him in the balls.”

“Wrong answer.”

“Yeah, _ouch_ , don’t do that,” Hunk complained, slightly nervous when Pidge threatened to jerk her knee up.

“I could bite your nose,” she suggested. “Or your neck.”

“Become a vampire?” he laughed.

“Yes.”

“Wrong answer. _Pidge_ ,” Shiro complained. “Best case scenario is that he or she would have their knees between your legs, and at the time Hunk grabs your wrists, you want to bring your knee up to his stomach-chest area. Yes, like that.”

Pidge did as he said, and then brought her other foot to Hunk’s hip. He had her wrists held tight, and as she pushed her legs out, she forced a hand under her opposite wrist, and extracted his grip from her. Hand free, she grabbed for his ear and tugged. “For the sake of practice yes, but in a life-threatening situation—”

“Thumb to the eye,” she said, demonstrating by holding her finger just an inch from Hunk’s eye socket. He squinted at her before pushing away and leaning back on his knees.

“Yes, and if Hunk’s legs straddle your hips instead—worse-case scenario,” Shiro said, gesturing for Hunk to get in position. “Avoid…?”

“Being strangled by swinging an arm over my neck,” she finished, doing just that as Hunk came in to grab her. She then lifted up and swept her arm behind his back, other arm over his shoulder, and used all her force to shove him and his two-hundred pound body off to the side.

Shiro shouted at her to use her elbows to hit him, and after practicing that, he called for her to get back on the ground, and practice getting up with Hunk already over her preparing to attack—kicking, grabbing her, avoiding any of these situations. 

When she got to her feet, Hunk laid off and Shiro approached her with a high five and a hair ruffle. “Good job. We’ll practice attacks from behind and multiple attackers tomorrow—we’ll see if Lance is willing to beat you up.”

“He isn’t much of a fighter, so much as he is a lover,” Hunk confessed thoughtfully, tapping his chin. “But I can ask him.”

“Are we drilling tonight?” she asked, and Shiro shook his head. Hunk suggested they head to the kitchen for lunch, and once there, he treated her to a full meal complete with fresh fruit, steamed vegetables, and seasoned turkey. They scarfed down the food in a matter of minutes, and downed several glasses of water before leaving and heading towards the library. Shiro followed them, having never set foot in the library before, and Pidge happily showed him around while Hunk went to retrieve a few books on woodcrafting.

They were wandering through the fourth level when Shiro asked where the fiction was. “Fiction?” Pidge repeated, pursing her lips. “I… don’t know. This is mostly academic literature.”

“Fiction can be academic,” he argued. “How else are we supposed to examine the human condition?”

“Uh, psychology?” she laughed, and he rolled his eyes.

“I mean the underlying meaning to everything. That’s what fiction authors _do_. They try to make sense of why we are the way we are in a way that’s… I don’t know, understandable to everyday people,” he said, and started to walk off in search of the directory. She followed.

“I didn’t know you read fiction.”

“Matthew was interested in it, unlike you,” he explained, and paused in the isle to look at her. She was watching him curiously, wondering if he was criticizing her for not being like her brother. Because she didn’t read fiction. “Anyway,” he continued, shaking his head, “we spent a lot of time reading together. I think you might enjoy it if you gave it a try.”

“Reading together?” she said again.

“He would read to me because I was his guard and I couldn’t laze around and get distracted,” he explained, stopping in front of the staircase where a slip of paper showed a map of the library. After studying it, he put it back and led Pidge up to the last and final floor: five stories from the ground level.

They hunted around a few isles and grimaced at the erotica section before at last finding suitable literature. Shiro rifled through them before picking out one and handing it to her. “For when you get bored of your… physics and mathematics books.”

She snickered at him before glancing down at the cover. He walked away to browse a little, and so she took the time to study the title page, and read several sentences of the first chapter. 

When she found Shiro next, he was leaning over the railing of the fifth floor, down to where they could see Hunk at a table organizing. “Would you read this to me?” she asked Shiro quietly.

He stared at her for a moment before glancing at the book. “I’ve heard that fiction is generally shared through readings. It makes the stories interesting,” she explained.

After a moment he claimed the book and nodded his head. “Yes, sure. Tonight, perhaps?” he suggested. They agreed to it.

Shiro still lived in the conjoined room simply because he still fancied himself Pidge’s guard, but mostly because Pidge wanted him to stay there. Coran still scowled at them when he saw them together, acting as if Shiro almost killed her—which he had—and voiced his opinions to Keith regularly. This included his want for Shiro to be given a room that didn’t have free access to Pidge’s.

Though it did make it easy for Shiro to sit in before Pidge went to bed, and read several chapters of the novel to her. They claimed one of the couches in her room, with Shiro reclined back and his legs up on the coffee table, and Pidge curled up against the cushions with a throw pillow in her arms. 

His voice was clear and profound, she discovered, and while it struggled to grasp the characters, it echoed the narrator perfectly. She was given much time to study his profile, and how his brows furrowed in concentration. He was out of practice, but she forgave him when he stumbled on words or spoke too fast. Once he got into the habit, she was pleased to find that fiction was tolerable. Near the end of the fourth chapter, though, she dosed off when exhaustion took hold of her. 

She vaguely felt Shiro’s arms rousing her, and when she opened them, she was against his chest and being carried to the bed. He laid her down, and she grudgingly got under the blankets and thanked him. She fell asleep before he even left the room.

  


  


At some ungodly hour of the night, Pidge found herself awake. She kept her eyes shut and urged herself to sleep again because her limbs felt dead even two nights after her last rigorous workout. Her entire body felt like lead, and when she finally peaked open an eye, she found that she couldn’t sleep because something was wrong.

Someone was watching her.

She bolted up and the person reacted. They darted at her, and the bed jolted as they assaulted her, the gleam of a knife raising over her head. At first she thought it was just Hunk practicing a fighting move, but this person was… _not him_. 

She screamed and instantly rammed the heel of her palm against the person’s wrist. It wasn’t enough to knock the knife away, but she grabbed onto the attacker’s arm and held it even as their inhumane strength surged over her. She rammed her knee against their chest, but the blankets hindered her.

“Fucking—stop squirming you bastard!” they hissed at her, sneering at her face. “Who the hell are you? Imposter?”

She cranked their wrist back and screamed, “Shiro! Shiro— _help!_ ” 

The person cursed and with her other hand she slammed it up against their nose. Instantly their head came back and struck her square in the forehead. Dazed and still screaming, Pidge grabbed their free wrist and rammed her head straight back into their nose.

“Fuck!” 

A flash of light assaulted both of them, and unimaginable heat swelled around them. The person collapsed forward, hot and heavy over Pidge’s entire frame. She threw the person off the bed, and found their weight _significantly_ lacking.

The bed jolted again, and Pidge realized it was because Shiro was there, shoving the person off—but she _already pushed them off_ —

She looked down at the floor and instantly choked. She threw down the bust, while Shiro pushed off the legs.

“Oh my God!” she screamed as Shiro gasped, “Holy fuck.” He wavered beside her, leaning onto one hand before completely fainting.

Pidge scrambled over to the other side of the bed and barely made it to the bathroom before vomiting. She was shaking when she exited the bathroom, and found Shiro where she left him passed out on her bed. She raised her eyes up from where she could see the legs of the intruder, tucked behind the other side of the bed. Hastily, she ran to the door and hesitated when the light underneath it reflected red. Her bare feet stuck to the floor, and she lifted them to find blood printed on the undersides of her toes.

The door was unlocked when she opened it, and she wished she hadn’t. It gave way to a body leant against it, which collapsed as soon as she opened the door. There wasn’t a face to stare up at her, but it was enough to trigger the memory of bodies piled under her feet in the redwood forests. She scrambled to catch herself from vomiting again, and, feet jittery, managed to lunge over the body and skid over slimy red floors and avoid more obstacles laying in her wake.

She counted the bodies—three guards, one servant.

 _The King_ , she gasped, and instantly snagged one of the swords off a guard’s body before sprinting off.


	16. Vote of Confidence

Pidge Gunderson’s feet were the only thing heard that night in the halls of Altea’s castle. The echo of bare feet slapping against tile carried her up to the second floor, and around to Lance’s room. Unfortunately, she failed to know where, exactly, the King’s chamber was. She imagined that was on purpose, to avoid intruders like the one now dead in her bedchamber. 

She skidded to a halt in front of Lance’s door and rammed her fist against it repeatedly. When he didn’t answer, she shouted, “ _Lance get your ass out of bed!_ ” Still no answer.

“What’s that racket?” a groggy voice mumbled a few paces away. She scampered towards it, and found Hunk peering out of his room, rubbing at his face. At the sight of her bloody sword, he scrambled out of his room and tripped over his sleep trousers. “Shit! What’s going on?”

“Where’s Keith’s room?” she demanded. “He’s in danger.”

Hunk stammered for a second before racing into his room and coming out with his weapon belt. “Follow me,” he demanded, and soon they were both off, running for the third floor.

The third floor was carpeted, and it wasn’t long before they were confronted by Keith’s entourage of guards standing in wake of his corridor. At the sight of Hunk, they let the big man through, but at the sight of Pidge’s unfamiliar face and bloody sword, the Lord General stopped her and confiscated it. “W-Wait! Wait—you have to check on the King! Hunk!” she shouted, trying to maneuver around the guards.

“I’m sorry, sir, you can’t go any farther than this,” the Lord General said, holding her by the arm. 

Hunk looked desperately at her before snapping his fingers at the guards. “Three of you, come with me. There’s been an incident a floor down,” he explained, and instantly they were off. “I’ll be right back!” he shouted to her before disappearing through one of the rooms on the left.

Pidge huffed and stood still, and remained in captivity with the remaining guards at their post. Not a minute later, there came a shriek from inside Keith’s room, and commotion as the guards screamed and ran out of the room red-faced and followed by a mortified Hunk. After a second of regaining his breath, Hunk held a thumb’s up to Pidge.

She relaxed with a sigh before perking up. _Wait, then what…?_ She realized she didn’t want to know. She definitely did _not_ want to know.

A minute later Keith stormed out of the room, clothed, and furious. “ _What_ the hell was that for?” he growled out, sneering at the guards. “I _specifically_ said—” he paused for a second after examining the crowd, and noticing Pidge. 

She realized he wasn’t particularly staring at her face, but rather lower, and she looked down and examined the blood on her arm. She didn’t recall getting any blood on herself, even when the body was severed in half. _Strange…_

“Good God, P-Prince Matthew!” Hunk shrieked, pointing at her. “You’re bleeding!” 

“I repeat, _what_ the hell is going on?” Keith demanded. 

One of the guards showed him the bloody sword she brought in, and as she staggered at the sight of her own blood, she remained attached to the Lord General. “I-I’m f-fine—there was—I was sleep-ping and there’s this head on my floor and vomit and Shiro’s _unconscious_ ,” she slurred, legs collapsing and she fell completely. 

She felt like she was awake but her body refused to move even as someone picked her up and patted her cheeks to rouse her. She blinked her eyes and in an instant squirmed and shouted, “Oh my God I left Shiro! Let me go!” 

“No no, you stay here,” Keith ordered, snapping his fingers at his guards. “Go check out the Prince’s chamber and wake the guards. I want the entire castle searched and all servants at attention. _Go!_ ”

Hunk approached Pidge and hugged her around her shoulders. She placed her cheek against his chest and watched the guards reorganize themselves, and the Lord General approach Keith and usher him back to his chambers. Keith ordered Hunk and the Prince come with and explain themselves.

The Lord General accompanied them into the space that greeted them with comfortable furniture, and various rooms attached to it. Several of them were closed, and through one came Lance, looking royally pissed and barely awake. “Are we having a fucking slumber party or something?” he said.

“I hope it doesn’t involve fucking,” Pidge said, rolling her fingers over her temples. “Someone was watching me while I slept and when I woke up, they attacked me.”

“They? Do you know what they looked like?” the Lord General asked, and Pidge shrugged.

“I don’t know—but their body is in the room. Shiro helped me cut them down—literally. You’ll find the body in two parts,” she explained, rubbing her hands over her face and groaning. “I got the sword from the body of a guard outside my room. The man must have fallen after the intruder got into my room, but there were two others, and a servant, she looked like.”

“I want every guard and servant interrogated,” Keith decided. “Ask if anyone saw anyone fitting the description the guards come up with after uncovering the body, before the attack. I want to know how they got in here, and how many people they took out to do it.”

“Yes, sir,” the Lord General said, and Keith dismissed him. After the Lord General left, Pidge turned to the eyes that watched her.

“They wanted to know who I was. I imagine the Galra were trying to figure out who was impersonating the prince they already have in custody,” she explained. “They had a heavy accent—most likely Galran. And were stronger than your average man. They could have killed me if they wanted to—I imagine they wanted information first, to take back to Zarkon.”

“Whoa, slow down,” Lance said, “You were _attacked_ and almost _killed_ and you _really_ want to be discussing it right now?”

“Yes, while it’s still fresh in my mind. I should also like to mention that I think Shiro used his hand to sever the body in half,” she added, and instantly Keith was leaning forward.

“How do you know?” he asked. “Did you see it happen?”

She thought for a moment, wondering how to piece it together. “Well, it was dark, and just before the body collapsed, there was this blinding light—it was kind of… _purplish_ , like on Galra steel. It didn’t just shimmer though—it was _bright_ and made this weird sound. I can’t really remember it or describe it, but afterwards Shiro fainted. At first I thought it was just from the shock of seeing a severed body—”

“But it might be the aftereffects of using magic,” Hunk concluded, and Pidge nodded eagerly. “Holy shit. This is the evidence we need, right? Coran _totally_ can’t ignore a first-hand witness _and_ the guy with the weird glowing Galra hand.”

“And I suppose it was triggered by life threatening circumstances,” Keith murmured. “You could have died, Pidge.”

“I could have died several times now,” she corrected, clasping her hands together on her lap. She fidgeted around with her fingers as Lance whispered something to Keith, who hit him and told Hunk to keep Lance under control. The guard shrugged his shoulders and proceeded to reach out and pat Pidge on the back. 

The Lord General didn’t return until he had news about the situation. “The Prince’s bedchamber has been cleaned out. There wasn’t any blood to be found, but the body was there. It looks as though the severed halves were… cauterized, which would mean the weapon that inflicted the wound would have had to have been at a scalding temperature,” he explained to Keith. “The knight, Takashi Shirogane, is in the infirmary. If my men are correct, Shirogane is still unconscious and unresponsive.”

“Thank you, Lord General,” Keith said, about to dismiss him. Though, before he could leave, Keith snapped his fingers and said, voice cold, “Do not share the information of the cauterized wound. Any guards that know of it must stay quiet about the matter.”

“Of course, sir,” he replied.

After a brief pause, Keith surveyed Pidge again before turning back to the Lord General. “The Prince’s wound seems to have stopped bleeding, but I’d like a nurse to check on him.”

The Lord General saluted him in affirmation before departing and sending in someone to patch Pidge’s arm. During that time, Keith and Lance said goodnight and departed, and Hunk scrapped together a few blankets to sleep on the floor beside the couch Pidge laid on. The nurse cleaned Pidge’s wound and, after a painful douse of alcohol, wrapped it up. It was on her forearm, where the knife must have nicked her while she was holding the attacker’s arm away.

For the remainder of the night, Pidge slept on one of Keith’s couches in the sitting room, and Hunk took the floor beside her. There wasn’t a single servant door in Keith’s chambers, thankfully, otherwise Pidge would have felt all the more paranoid about waking up to a pair of eyes staring at her from some unseen doorway.

In the morning, light filtered in through an open door north of them, and Pidge reached out towards it, stretching her sore muscles and letting her fingers warm in the light of the sun. At some point during the night, Keith spoke with the Lord General and had a guard remain in the room with “the Prince, in case he’s the target.”

“Should we not separate the two of you then?” he questioned, and Keith shook his head.

“No, this is fine.”

So when Pidge finally sat up and rubbed her hair out of her face, there was a fellow facing the window, wearing Altean armor and a sword at his hip. When she moved to stand up, he glanced at her to check if she was okay. 

She stepped over Hunk and headed for the bathroom. She washed up and, with damp hair and slightly filthy clothes, she stepped back out and found Hunk waiting for his turn.

Lance and Keith were still asleep, so Pidge asked the guard if she and Hunk could visit Shiro. The guard agreed, so she asked, “Has he woken up yet?”

“I don’t know for certain, sir.” They would have to find out for themselves.

Once Hunk was out of the bathroom, she tugged him along out of the King’s chamber and away from the horde of guards in the corridor. There seemed to be quite the commotion around these parts, and when they came across the Lord General, he tasked Hunk with the Prince’s safety. He gave them instructions when it came to finding Shiro. First floor, north wing, private rooms in the infirmary. “Several of my men are down there—let them know I let you two through,” he told them.

“Will do, sir,” Hunk answered, saluting him before gesturing for Pidge to follow. 

They avoided the second floor at all costs, and went straight to the ground level in a hurry to see Shiro. The infirmary was detached from most of the castle, and was separated by an outdoor overhang, and a courtyard in which patients could walk and rest. During several of her tours around the castle, Pidge learned that it was used by people across the capital—which explained why a portion of it was linked outside the castle grounds. That section was a newer addition, and one Keith implemented as one of his first accomplishments. It was meant to be accessible to everyone, and not just noble people. 

Hunk knew the staff in the front room, and after promptly getting the information of Shiro’s whereabouts he asked, “Is Shay working today?”

The girl at the desk shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. A lot of our staff was under interrogation last night, and Shay was working at the time of the incident. You might find her in the West Court.” He agreed to it, and hesitated just long enough for the girl to start questioning him. “Do you know what happened, sir?”

“Uh, no, I don’t.”

“You are a terrible liar, Hunk. But I won’t pressure you—have a nice day!” she said cheerfully, and as they left the foyer, Pidge smirked at the sight of Hunk go red with embarrassment.

  


  


Shiro tried to remember where he was, and how he got to be in this foreign room. The canopy from his bed wasn’t in sight as he stared at the ceiling. He blinked and proceeded to prop himself up on his elbows with a groan.

This definitely _wasn’t_ his room _._

_Where_ was _I last?_

He recalled reading to Pidge before calling it a night—though, she was the first to fall asleep. After he put her to bed, he went to his own room, and bathed before checking on Pidge again. Her room was entirely dark, but he could see the shadows where she slept under the blankets. He shut the door behind him as he returned to his own bed—definitely _not_ the one he woke up in.

And then…

Pidge was screaming.

He prayed it was just a dream, but why else would he wake up in a strange area? Something happened, and the panic of helping Pidge _was_ real. All he could recall from barging into her room was shoving an intruder off of her bed and passing out. But why would he faint? He wasn’t prone to fainting, given his profession. 

As he continued to run through the events, he shoved the blankets off his legs and jumped to his feet. He was just heading for the door when he became aware of the person sleeping on a nearby couch. 

A sigh escaped him and he relaxed instantly. Shiro paused for a minute midway to the door before changing course and gently shaking the shoulder of his guest. “Pidge, wake up,” he whispered. 

She jolted hard and fast, and slapped his hand away. After thrashing for a minute, she calmed down and gasped for breath. “Don’t _do_ that,” she snapped. “No more shoving me out of bed in the morning—I might stab you by accident.”

He retracted his hands and studied her—it took just a second for him to notice the bandage on her arm that certainly wasn’t there last time. “So that actually happened?” he said as Pidge drew her eyes up to his. “You were attacked last night?”

“Yes,” she answered. “How are you feeling?”

“How am _I_ feeling?” he repeated, exasperated. He knelt beside her and held onto her wounded arm. “What about you? Is it serious?”

“Not particularly,” she confessed, rubbing at the bandage. He kept his hand there, cradling the back of her palm as he released the breath he held, and tried to repress the surge of emotion in his chest. The last time he felt his adrenaline spike like that was the night the Galra attacked and took Prince Matthew from him. He couldn’t bear to let that happen to Pidge. 

Suddenly, she had her free arm wrapped around his neck, and her face tucked against the side of his head. He held onto her and managed to calm his heart in the time it took for Pidge to do the same. Shiro’s arm wrapped around the entirety of her back, and with his hand hooked over her side, he could feel her firm abdominal muscles. He decided they wouldn’t train today. 

Instead, after arranging for his departure from the infirmary, Shiro took her to the kitchens where the chef doted on them with an excellent midday meal. He couldn’t believe how hungry he was—he couldn’t count the number of times his stomach groaned at him during the walk to the kitchen. Just smelling all the food in the kitchen was enough to make his stomach cramp, _literally_. He sat slightly hunched over it until the chef dispensed the food in front of them, and he scarfed down a plateful of bacon and eggs. 

He pushed the plate forward and asked, “Could I trouble you for some more?”

“Not at all, sir. Here you go,” she said, and swept the contents of her skillet onto his plate.

After finishing his second plate, he realized that Pidge was watching him curiously—like how she studied her gun models and blueprints. He asked her what was on her mind because he knew there was something she was holding back on. Prompting her gave him an insight to the events of last night, and what conspired before he passed out. _Why_ he passed out, in her opinion. The myths surrounding his hand were true—he knew it as such after piecing it together. To shove a person off Pidge’s bed would require him to push that particular hand against their side—and when it transformed into the monstrosity the Galra gave him, his hand cut straight through the intruder’s torso.

“It’s no wonder you’re starving,” she mused afterwards. “Are you still hungry?”

“No, I’m fine now.” _I think_.

  


  


_Dearest Allura,_

  


_Unfortunate circumstances have led to complete quarantine of the castle. I should explain what led to this, though it disturbs me: a Galran assassin took the lives of three guards and a servant, and infiltrated the Prince’s quarters (you understand why I call him as such). I came in time to dispatch the assassin, and I’m thankful we began self-defense classes prior to the attack. The Prince is fine, take for a singular cut. Every last member of the castle staff has been interrogated by the head of the King’s guard._

_It seems the myth you shared about the Galra enhancements is hardly a myth. Unknowingly I used it, and unknowingly I beheld the consequences. I hardly know whether or not you will take the verification of this information as good or bad, but the King rationalizes it as a way to protect the Prince, not harm him—seeing as this was how I used it in the event of the assassin. The King may inform you of these details, but I wished to share them with you through my own words, and for you to know my concerns. I wish I could be as confident as you when it comes to my abilities in my profession. Since returning to this life, my confidence and security has been shattered, and replaced with the failure I cannot mention. I am aware of how you have been touched by this war, and exposed to its hardships, and yet you are stronger than ever. You know how I aspire to be as you are—perhaps alongside you. If you’ll have me, that is._

_Wishing, it seems, has become the topic of this letter. That said, I wish we could have spent more time together. But letters are a sufficient way to get to know one another, seeing as I believe literature is the best way to examine an author’s outlook on life. I should like to become acquainted with yours._

  


_Yours,_

_(A custom, black, Knight of Holt seal was stamped in place of Takashi Shirogane’s signature.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still seething over the fact that I posted chapter 14 and 15 in the wrong order XD 
> 
> Anyways, it makes me sad that everyone's sort of treating Shiro like an experiment or a sell sword (which he isn't, he doesn't kill people for money). But they just sort of view him as someone to protect Pidge, train Pidge, gather intel on the Galra, gain back his memories, yada yada yada. I mean, yeah, he's crucial to the team, but not even to the extent Hunk is, who is also a guard. I don't know. I just really need to... fix that. The amount of existential crises Shiro goes through is just absurd to begin with XD
> 
> Out of all of them, I think Allura understands Shiro the most. They come from similar statures, considering Shiro worked with the King and the Prince back in the day. I think that's the main reason why she sympathizes with him, and because she's been exposed to the war in a way the others haven't been. This is what happens when I become too invested in fanfiction.


	17. Open Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Klance for you, and for you, and you, and you, and YOU.

Keith, against his better judgement, became nervous around Shiro. He hardly knew what to expect of the man now that the rumors were true, and a man of that power could hardly be kept at bay. Yet, Shiro was perfectly content being the pedestal to the young girl’s aspirations. In fact, he watched them now as Shiro lifted Pidge off the ground to reach a set of materials atop of the shelving unit in their workspace at the castle. It seemed the knight preferred being below people, serving them, as opposed to the force he was capable of destroying them with.

While all this was true, Keith still felt unsettled. He’d seen the corpse Shiro left on the floor of Pidge’s bedchamber, and it was a ghastly sight he wished to expel from his memories. It seemed now that the only thing preventing that from happening again was Pidge’s safety. 

He was driven from his thoughts the moment Hunk spoke up, “This is the second model we’ve come up with—well, it was Pidge’s design—”

“But Hunk put it together,” Pidge countered. 

“Yes, well—anyway…” Hunk said awkwardly, clearing his throat. “It’s for precise shooting—and has an eyepiece that directs the mark of the shot.”

Pidge held it up for him to see, having been lowered to the ground a minute before with the gun in her hands. She pointed to the eyepiece, and urged him look through it. 

Keith took the gun and faced it away from them and at the wall. When he squinted one eye, he saw the fine lines of the target through the eyepiece, and instantly drew them over to where Lance stood. Lance shrieked, trying to escape the gun’s line of sight. “Please tell me there isn’t any ammunition in that!” he cried out. Keith laughed and lowered the gun, passing it back to Pidge.

“I can’t say for sure—Hunk was the last one to use it,” she said with a smirk. Hunk shrugged. “A lot of the archers will be assigned these guns. They’re meant for long distance, calculated shots.”

“They won’t entirely replace bows and arrows, though,” Hunk explained. “We will still find much use for them when strategizing an attack. Arrows would most likely be used in the forefront of the battle—before the two sides collide, to thin out the ranks.” 

“And these ones here will be used to take out the commanding officers in the Galra army—the ones who are the biggest threat to our people. We have to take them out before they make it to our front linemen,” Pidge added, gesturing to the sharpshooter. Keith hummed thoughtfully, and leaned a hand on the table. They had several of their first models out on the table, and he reached to examine one. 

“Do you mind if I test one out?” he asked.

“Um…” Hunk glanced uncertainly at Pidge, who pursed her lips and looked at Shiro, who shrugged. “Well, we’ve only tested them with Allura’s soldiers.”

“What makes me any different than them?” Keith argued, narrowing his eyes at Hunk, who recoiled instantly.

“Well, we just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all.”

“It works, doesn’t it? No one’s gotten hurt yet, right?” Keith countered.

“Well, you haven’t exactly been there to see how it works, sir—no offense or anything,” Hunk said. Annoyance flared up in Keith’s expression, and he snatched the gun and walked off. “Wait! Wait—I said no offense!”

“I’m testing it out,” he argued back, and the guardsmen at the door watched with wide eyes as their King stormed for the archery field. Lance hurried along beside him, and was surprised to find him actually _agreeing_ with the gunsmiths.

“Honestly, wouldn’t you like to have one of the soldiers use it instead? And you can just watch from afar?” Lance suggested. Keith’s fists balled up, and he was a second away from pulling the trigger. Every last soldier who used these guns came out alive, didn’t they? And unharmed? All of their test runs were reported to him by Coran, so while he may not have been there at the training fields, he certainly knew about them.

They exited the castle and started down the steps to the field, their entourage of guards behind them. Keith swept his coat aside, and tossed it to Lance before rolling up his sleeves and demanding ammunition from one of the guards. In the training shed they kept a small box of bullets, for the test runs, and a guard gave him five. He inserted them into the device, and set it to fire.

Lance, nervous as he was, put Keith in the stance for shooting, and raised his arms in the correct position before Pidge was even able to catch up and shout, “Well, if you aren’t going to listen to us, at _least_ put earplugs in!”

“Why would I need those?” Keith argued, settling his finger over the trigger, and cranking it back. 

The gun flared to life, and following the jolting click of the mechanism, and explosion went off that sent him staggering back, and a wisp of smoke to rise from the barrel. The shock of the explosion vibrated through his arm and rang in his skull, upsetting that adrenaline-starved nature that escaped that night of the party. It always made him rash, and he loved it. He fell in love with the gun in his hand, and fired the remaining bullets with a childish grin on his face, relishing the ring in his ears.

The target he aimed at tore to shreds when the bullets ripped through the fabric and the stuffed material underneath. His archery skills and sharp eye proved him well. 

He shouted afterwards, throwing his arms up and screaming in ecstasy. He clasped his arms around Lance, who had his fingers plugged in his ears, and shouted, “Did you see that!”

“What!” Lance screamed back.

Keith burst into laughter and spun around to see the guards watching him, fingers in their ears, and looking slightly perturbed by what conspired just then. At the time, he found their confusion hysterical, and nearly fell over laughing. “Where’s the ammunition?” he demanded, scrambling over to the box Hunk now held in his hands.

Once the gunfire started echoing through the castle grounds, the staff began crowding around the archery fields to watch their King take out target after target. He had people set up dummies all across the field, and didn’t give up until every last one had a bullet in the two bold markings—the chest, and the head. In the end, Lance confiscated the weapon, burning as it was, and gave it back to Pidge and Hunk.

“This one seems a bit burnt out,” he told Keith.

“What? Shouldn’t they be _used_ for more than twenty shots?”

“That was more like fifty,” Lance laughed. “And we don’t exactly have limitless ammunition yet.”

“ _Yet_ ,” Keith repeated, accepting the hand Lance dragged down the length of Keith’s arm. Lance’s other arm wrapped around his, and he leaned close as the two of them retreated back up the stairs, and ignored the shock on Pidge’s face as she analyzed the smokey barrel on Keith’s gun. 

Keith’s ears were still ringing by the time they made it up to his offices. Once inside, Lance tossed Keith’s coat onto a nearby couch and shut the door behind them. He began wondering what Coran would have to say for today—on the matter of the corpse, that is. They had it under inspection with the sorcerers who specialized in deconstructing the work of Galra magic—

Lance’s hands were suddenly searing through the fabric of Keith’s shirt, splaying over his abdomen and absorbing every last thought that was on his mind. At least, everything except that chime of excess adrenaline still pulsing inside him and sending his heart into a frenzy. It was such an innocent action for Lance to rest his head on Keith’s shoulder from behind, and his hum to reverberate against Keith’s back. 

“I haven’t seen you that crazy since—hm, well, since several nights ago,” Lance murmured, gently swaying Keith left and right. “If I remember correctly, it was in _your_ bed, and I—”

“ _God_ , don’t bring it up,” Keith laughed, resting his head back. 

“I’ll bring it up, if you know what I mean,” Lance snickered against his neck, rolling his hips forward. Keith chuckled, laying his hands over Lance’s and bucking right back, just to knock him off balance. 

“ _Not_ in the office. My desk is off limits.”

“Oh, so _now_ it is? What happened since last time? Wasn’t it fun?” Lance complained, trailing his hands over Keith’s hips as he started to walk away. Lance followed at his heels, never taking his hands off of him. 

He plucked Lance’s fingers off his hips and sat down in his chair. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting Lance to do—it was obvious he was on the prowl, which led him to the first seat available: Keith’s lap. Keith rolled his eyes, and ignored the fact that Lance had a boney bum and when he resituated himself with his legs over the armrest, his cheeks dug into Keith’s thighs. 

“ _Ow_ , do you never gain any fat from eating as much as you do?” Keith complained.

“What do you mean?” Lance said, smirking as he began wriggling his bum around in a way that made grinding almost painful to Keith. He grunted and started to shove Lance off, but the man was too squirmy. He settled in on the side of Keith’s legs, and tossed an arm around Keith’s shoulders, a coy smile spreading his lips apart. It took a moment for Keith to realize that his entire face felt flushed, and he wasn’t doing any better at hiding _other_ matters.

Lance put his hand over Keith’s crotch, and instantly he hissed, plucking Lance’s hand away. “ _Not_ in the office.”

“Oh, lighten up. I thought you’d be more of a daredevil today,” Lance complained. “Besides, I already locked the door.”

“You what?” Keith blurted out, and his complaint fizzled away into a stammer, and then to content obscenities when Lance’s hand slipped under his waistband. Goosebumps rushed across Keith’s skin, and as Lance turned him to putty in his hands, he leaned in and suckled at the flesh of his neck. Keith dropped his head back against the chair and stifled a moan.

Keith hated to admit it, but he both loathed and loved to surrender to Lance’s depravities and moral corruption. It was something Coran was horribly aware of—especially after the _last_ incident Lance deemed “fun” and Keith deemed “mortifying”. There was no way in hell he’d let himself fuck Lance against the office’s windows—it wasn’t that anyone could _see_ anything through them since they were foggy as all hell and purposefully cloudy. It was just that they were in direct line of sight from the door Coran walked through on that particular day, at that particular time, and screamed so loud half the staff in the castle heard it.

Lance laughed about it for _weeks_. 

Of course he would.

And of course he’d be more than willing to give Keith a hand job no more than two feet from the location they fucked in.

So when Keith moaned into Lance’s mouth and shuddered in complete bliss, Lance grinned at him like the devil he was. He nibbled on Keith’s lip for another minute, taking his time to wipe his hand clean on a tissue before realizing the problem at hand. “Why don’t you keep spare pants in your office?” he asked.

Keith sighed and rubbed his hair away from his face. “I don’t exactly _prepare_ for this sort of thing, unlike _you—_ ”

The knock that sounded on the door then couldn’t be consider the _worst_ timing—that would have been a minute before—but it was enough to give Keith a mini heart attack. Lance jumped as well, and without hesitation said, “Let’s switch pants. My coat’s long enough to cover it and I’ll get you new ones.”

“Are you _insane?_ ” Keith hissed, but the knock came again. “ _Fine_.”

They got up and swapped pants _and_ underwear—much to Keith’s dismay. As Lance was tying the laces, he said, “You know it’s true love when you’re willing to wear your partner’s cum-stained pants in public.”

“I _swear_ to _God_ Lance if you tell _anyone—_ ” he snarled at him, and was interrupted by another cheeky kiss from Lance. The knocking became more urgent, so Lance was off and the door opened. Keith leaned against the desk and let out the breath that constricted his chest. He couldn’t believe a single person in the world would have done what Lance did just then. It was sordid, disturbing, and overall absurd. 

That was why Keith loved Lance the most. He wouldn’t find a single person like Lance in all the hordes of nobles he knew.

  


Several weeks passed, and Pidge’s training was beginning to take place outside of lessons unexpectedly. The first planned attack was when she was walking with Lance around the courtyard and out of nowhere someone jumped her from behind. She was too panicked to react with anything other than the knife she kept in her pocket, and the second both Lance _and_ Hunk started screaming, she realized her life wasn’t in danger.

“Since when did you keep a _knife_ on you?” Hunk had asked her, stepping back from his attacking position, arms raised in submission.

She remembered jabbing the knife at him just to scare him before saying, “Since I was almost _murdered_ in my _sleep_!”

After that, Shiro confiscated her knife to prevent trainer-injury when one of them would jump her out of the blue. She became paranoid the second she left her room—not that she _wasn’t_ paranoid in her room. She often woke up in the middle of the night at the thought of an intruder. Not only that, but the attack sprung back memories of the war, and the carnage on the battlefield. She tried not to let it bother her, but her conscience told her she wouldn’t be human if she wasn’t terrified of that level of gore.

The amount of surprises didn’t cease at the sneak attacks, because Lance started sitting in on their lessons, and soon Pidge was practicing her own attack moves on him. He was a reluctant learner at first, but Pidge’s attack practices turned into Lance’s self-defense classes. Hunk started taking days off because of it, and after spending a day spying on him instead of training, Pidge and Shiro learned that he was off to the infirmary where he’d sit and talk with a nurse out in the courtyard. Lance informed them that her name was Shay.

“She has a brother who works at the infirmary as well, and her father’s a doctor,” he explained. “Hunk ‘claims’ he’s not in a relationship with her, but I mean, who just walks around and talks to someone if they aren’t dating.”

“Are you saying Shiro and I are dating?” Pidge accused, and at the sound of his name, Shiro perked up and said, “What?”

Lance gave her an exhausted expression, and instantly regretted it when Pidge ducked low and came in for a tackle. She faked him on the left and bolted at the right, grabbing one arm and slamming him to the ground. He shrieked, thrashing about like a fish out of water.

Shiro called the match off and had to pry Pidge off Lance to prevent another attack. “Alright, that’s enough. No more unexpected bodyslams,” he said.

“You do that to me all the time. You _and_ Hunk. The two of you are the body slamming champions,” Pidge said, giggling and shaking off Shiro’s hand with ease. It took several seconds to wonder why Shiro wasn’t responding, and turned around to find him staring at her, the shock evident on his face. “Shiro?” she called out, and instantly Lance was on his feet.

Shiro shook his head, saying, “I-I’m fine—what did you just say?” 

His shaky response was enough to put Pidge on edge, who was wary to begin with when it came to Shiro and Hunk now. She half expected him to go insane again, but what would body slamming have to do with his time in the Galra Empire? “I just said you and Hunk bodyslam me all the time,” she answered slowly.

“No, no,” he countered, shaking his head again, and this time raising his hands as if to grab her. She stepped away, and pushed Lance behind her. If he was in his right mind, he would have noticed their response to his actions. Instead, Shiro went on a tangent. “No, you called me _champion_. I-I am no—I am _not_ the champion, I’m _not him anymore!_ ”

“Oh my God,” Lance murmured, the both of them jumping when Shiro scraped his hands over his hair, down his face, fingers curved like claws. Lance grabbed at her arm to pull her away, but something stopped Pidge.

Shiro would have attacked by now. 

Instead, his slurred speech turned to gibberish that gradually became noticeable Galra tongue. He kept repeating the same phrase over again, like a broken machine, hands on his face with a wild stare that raised goosebumps on Pidge’s arms. Eventually, she understood him perfectly. 

“You’re the champion,” she said, testing her Galra tongue and instantly drawing his attention to her. At the same time, Lance hissed at her, quietly, “Are you _crazy?_ He just said he wasn’t, don’t—”

Shiro’s stature uncurled, and that wide, crazy look became something akin to… _fear?_ No, that wasn’t right. He was cautious, stance broad and meticulous in the way he squared himself. “I am,” he answered, and the smile that followed was unnerving, and the look he gave her was even more so. His eyes seemed to be… _glazed over_ , and replaced with a person far more hollow than the one she came to know. “You seem well, _Prince Matthew_.”

She felt Lance’s hand tighten on her, and she realized that he was completely cowering behind her. It was just Pidge, and this foreign version of Shiro. Her breath failed her, and her throat constricted as she fought to say something. “Wh-When was the last time I saw you, Champion?” she asked, voice practically nonexistent. 

Shiro stepped towards her, suddenly a mountain that overshadowed her, casting a cold chill through her bones. She stared up at him, knowing at this point Hunk would have tore her away and the both of them would be running. Instead, she faced him, and he did the same to her. 

His fiendish smirk had yet to fade. Instead, it increased as he raised a hand up and deposited it onto her shoulder. “I saw you just the other day,” he answered. “How could you have forgotten already?” That grin was something Pidge shuddered at, even if it was on the Shiro she knew, the one who saved her several times—and nearly killed her at others. _No, it was this Shiro who almost killed me,_ not _the one who saved me_.

He leaned in close to her ear, and at any other time she wouldn’t have felt this suffocated. Perhaps it was her already failing lungs, but this nearly threw her off the edge. “Do you miss having your personal champion at your side, Matthew?”

“Wh-Wh-What makes you s-say that?” she stammered horribly, “Am I not with you anymore?”

Shiro laughed in her ear—condescending, to say the least. “ _No_ , no, no. You misunderstand your superiors, my Prince. _You_ are to become a champion. I quite envy you—stealing my place. Perhaps we shall be equals now. Does that agree with you, _sir_?” 

Pidge was fully aware of how close he came, and how he now snatched her wrist, the satirical nature of his voice completely masking the cruel way he shoved her backwards, tripping over Lance, and taking both of them down. Lance scrambled away, and lunged in search of a weapon as Shiro lowered himself over her, constricting her with his legs on either side of her hips. 

Despite having been put in this situation, she kept talking. “So I’m to be a champion, y-yes? What does that entail?”

Shiro laughed, finding her ignorance _oh so hilarious_. His hand ripped at her clothes—she knew exactly what he was doing, and just wished Lance would find something soon and _fast_. “Eager to learn?” Shiro sneered, sardonic eyes leering at her, close, and sharing the breath she huffed out trying to tear her hand away. 

Just as he came to the waistband of her trousers, she leapt up and bit the first thing near her—his nose. She’d never felt anything as strange as the cartilage of someone’s nose pinch between her teeth. He cursed at her and she dodged the brute force of his head about to collide with hers. She’d managed to bite and reopen the wound over the bridge of his nose, and blood _plipped_ onto her cheek. He snarled Galran curses at her, his knee coming down on her stomach and knocking the breath out of her lungs.

At that same time, a shadow approached fast and not a second later, a massive bat took Shiro out by the side of the head. The force wasn’t enough to knock him unconscious, but it certainly took him off of Pidge. She swept to her feet just as Shiro taught her, and instantly grabbed Lance’s hand. “ _C’mon!_ Run as fast as you can!” she shouted at him, and the two of them sprinted with nothing but a bat to defend themselves. That, and Pidge’s elbows.

“Guards! Guards!” Lance screamed the second they were out of the gym, and as they escaped up the stairwell, a few were close at hand. “It’s Shiro! He’s gone mad!”

“Are _you_ mad?” Pidge countered, huffing. “That _isn’t_ Shiro!” _It’s whoever the Champion is_.

Lance directed her towards a nearby servant hallway, and they crammed into there with the hidden door shut behind them. He had his hand around her wrist, and he tugged her along until they escaped through another door and found themselves in a gallery on the first floor.

Pidge fell forward and collapsed on the floor, her exhaustion and shock sending her into a stupor. She didn’t return to the world until she felt Lance nudge her, and his jacket held out to her. She thanked him for it, and replaced her destroyed shirt with Lance’s casual blue and black jacket. Even in practice he was fashionable.

Pidge ripped the remaining edges of her shirt out of her trousers and tried to process the meaning of all this madness. “I need a piece of paper and a pen,” she demanded, and not a second later they were on the hunt for just that. 

They snagged a slip of parchment and a pencil from a room nearby and she set to work repeating all she could remember from Shiro’s rant, with help from Lance now and again in getting the wording right. The man had an excellent memory, much to her surprise—though, she had to admit, Lance wasn’t as dull as he made himself out to be. He was as sharp as a sword, considering he went to university _and_ managed to stay top of his class while also having a major social life. The kid was a genius when it came to multitasking, or just procrastinating. 

“What do you suppose he meant by how my brother and him were—Stealing his place? Have you heard anything about champions among the Galra?” Pidge asked, glancing at Lance as he peered over her shoulder.

“I’m… not certain,” he confessed.

“And what of how Matthew and Shiro were—it seemed like they spent time together, or were _permitted to_ , at least,” she mused, pursing her lips and tapping her pencil to her chin. Silence followed— _awkward_ silence. She wasn’t dense enough to ignore how Lance stepped back from her and gave her an incredulous look. “What?”

“You seriously don’t know what he meant by that?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow. “Have you _ever_ been in a romantic relationship before? Do you _know_ what tearing a shirt in two implies?”

Pidge’s entire face flamed bright red as she stammered, “W-Well, _no_ , not _really_. I lived in the Garrison for _three years_ —ergo, I know a thing or two about what guys are into. And I also know that Shiro was in no way romantically interested in _my brother_.” 

“Why else did he try to strip you?” _This conversation is getting out of hand_ , Pidge thought, and determined that she would have to have a discussion with someone who wasn’t biased when it came to sexual innuendos. 

“There could be many reason. What I’m _trying_ to say is that we shouldn’t assume things as drastic as that. Besides, that _wasn’t_ Shiro—Shiro would _never_ act like that! That was the Galra speaking to us through their ex-minion, don’t you see? We have an entire window into the Galra, and we just got a glimpse through it!”

Pidge gathered the paper up, folded it, and inserted it into Lance’s coat pocket as she departed from the scene with Lance scampering after her. He continued to argue on behalf of Shiro’s sexual appetite as they proceeded to the King’s office. They found the King already speaking with the guards, and Hunk was among them—as was Coran. The senior advisor clapped his hands at them, and drew everyone’s attention to Lance and Pidge. 

“Dear God—you two just fell off the grid, didn’t you?” Keith snapped at them, looking thoroughly pissed. “I hear Shiro’s been contained and the Prince and Lance have disappeared.”

“Yes, well, so sorry about that,” Lance replied sarcastically, dodging the hand Keith tried to reel him in with. “Do you suppose we could have a _word_ , hm? Perhaps somewhere less public?”

They’d barely gotten into the office when Pidge interrupted, asking, “Contained? You mean to say he’s back in the keep?”

Coran folded his arms over his chest and said, “If you two hadn’t disappeared, you might know _that_ , is exactly the case. And Shiro has yet to come out of his hypnosis. They barely managed to shackle him in the state he’s in.” The news struck Pidge in a way she hadn’t imagined. All at once she felt both devastated and ecstatic. Their window was still open.


	18. The Champion

Pidge dreaded to see the Champion again, and the main reason being how much the Champion resembled the Shiro she loved. This false monster was a danger to every last one of them, and it took everything in her to ignore the fact that he was capable of tearing out of his restraints and executing all of them before collapsing in the aftermath of magic. He could do so much damage before he fell.

Still, she managed to descend the steps of the keep, and walk the length of the hall that would take her to him. She had her hand clasped on Hunk’s arm, and behind him, Lance. Pidge struggled to force herself to release Hunk, and she begrudgingly walked the remaining steps into the Champion’s line of sight. Oh, how he _leered_ at her. 

His eyes followed her as she stepped to the front of him—she saw this from the cloudy grayish purple where his pupils once sat. Now, he was nearly without irises at all. His grin curved even wider as he seemed to register who, exactly, graced his presence. 

“ _My Prince_ , how delighted are you to see me again?” the Champion taunted, rolling his head on his shoulders as he laughed. “You’ve missed me dearly, I see.”

“As much as I could,” she answered, sarcastic and surprised by how strong her voice was. “Though it seems you’ve missed me more.”

He chuckled, dropping his gaze slightly. “Ah, I see. You’ve forgotten how I long to be by your side—unchain me and I shall remind you, Matthew. They say _you_ pined for your Champion, though we both know…” His tongue curved over his teeth, and that infernal gaze pierced her and sent her insides to flames.

She boiled under her skin as she said, regretting having to say it, “And why would that be?” 

His chains clanked, and the fabric that kept him contained swayed as he leaned towards her—a comfortable several yards between them. “Allow me to refresh your memory, _Prince_ ,” he drawled. “Champions escape the ranks of slavehood—we _rise above_ , as I have and you will also. We become _greater than ourselves_ , and what our human bodies confine us to. I will become invincible one day, and _tear the smug look_ off Sendak’s face—every fucking time he tails you around I can’t _stand_. My becoming Champion was the best damn thing that could have happened to you, Matthew. I _saved you_ from that, don’t you see? You’re the only thing I ever wanted out of this damn war—fuck the slaves and prisoners. The goddamn imbeciles who covet their sardonic desires on them are _weak_ , _spineless_ , hellions in the Empire. 

“Excess desire is a shortcoming in war. It was moronic of Sendak to allow soldiers to indulge themselves,” the Champion’s sneer diminished, and he summoned a look of distain. “ _I_ got you out of there— _I_ saved you—and you never thanked me _once!_ God _dammit,_ would you prefer being a slave to Sendak instead? Matthew, don’t you care? Don’t you care that I love you?” 

Pidge’s throat constricted, and as she repressed a sob, she bit out, “You’re meant to be my knight.”

The Champion’s expression fizzled, and he snarled. “Your _knight?_ This isn’t a goddamn _fairytale_. You think you were ever a _Prince? Are you delusional?_ ”

A shuddering gasp escaped Pidge’s mouth before she could stop it, and instantly Hunk had his arms around her shoulders. Her shoulders bunched up to her ears as she screamed, “What the fuck are you if you aren’t my knight?! You think you’re a _champion?_ ”

“Like fuck I’m your goddamn _knight in shining armor_!” he screamed back, and faltered as Pidge grabbed onto the bars and shook them, furious with herself for losing her patience, her understanding. How could she understand someone like this? “You can’t be _weak_ _anymore_ , Matthew. We are beyond that point,” the Champion said, voice rather subdued in comparison to the shouts of before. An expression akin to pity pulled at his brow, and he said, “I’m trying. I’m trying, Matthew—please! Don’t walk away from me! Don’t— _Matthew!_ ” 

Hunk had Pidge wrapped up in his arms as they exited the keep, blocking out the sound of the Champion screaming after her to return to him. To her great surprise, she didn’t shed a tear. It just felt like someone jammed a chair into her throat and tried to get her to swallow it.

When she glanced at them, she found Lance paler than usual, and Hunk even more so. Hunk actually looked rather nauseous. “I… I don’t think this version of Shiro is anything like how he normally is,” she told them.

Hunk patted her arm and said, “Let’s just… drop the subject for a bit, huh? I’m not very keen on talking about it anytime soon.”

“I second that motion,” Lance agreed.

Their disagreement on the topic didn’t prevent Pidge from thinking on it, and analyzing the situation. In the library, Pidge set to work writing down all she remembered from the Champion’s tangents, ignoring how disturbed Hunk looked just reading textbooks. She studied the structure of the Champion’s expressions, and how they fluxed based on what he talked about. 

_Sendak_ , she mused, tapping her pencil to her chin. It made a hollow sound against her bones, which hardly compared to how hollow the Champion’s eyes were as they watched her, animated and satanic. One thing was certain: Matthew and the Champion had a common enemy. Sendak was the reason they were ever reunited, but that didn’t change the fact that Pidge never saw Matthew among the Champion’s squadron. 

“There’s a hierarchy in which slaves rank even below soldiers, and prisoners beneath that,” Pidge thought aloud. “Matthew rose from prisoner to slave, and following that… I feel like I am missing a step. It doesn’t seem like a slave instantly gains freedom—they have to earn it somehow, and that stage comes before being a champion.”

Hunk sighed, clearly not wanting to discuss it with her, but obviously having it on his mind. “And the way he worded it? It sounds like Champion is a rare status, Pidge—I _really_ don’t want to discuss this right now—”

“But how could it be rare if Matthew was— _is_ —working towards the Champion status?” Pidge demanded. “I’m under the impression that being the Champion excludes you from certain social norms—and that many champions wind up on the battlefield working for the Galra. I think between slave and champion, they confiscated Shiro’s identity and what he knew himself to be. He acted like… the life _before_ the Galra just never existed, and was just a fantasy to hope for.”

“What makes you think Matthew isn’t like.. the _Champion_ already?” Hunk asked, exhausted by the entire affair.

“B-Because…” Pidge sought for a reason, and confiscated it the second she found it. “Because Matthew still believes the Champion was once a knight, and that he was a prince. And the reason the Champion sounds so condescending and sarcastic when he calls me by Matthew’s ‘past title’, is because he thinks it’s an idiotic kid’s story. He doesn’t _remember_ ever being a knight to royalty.”

“He doesn’t seem to remember _anything_ about the past three months since you found him in the war,” Hunk answered, speaking softly. “It’s like… he completely ignores the fact that he’s in an enemy’s castle, and that you’re roaming free.”

“No… No, he’s just playing along,” Pidge answered. “He pretends like this is one big _show_ of some sort, and he’s putting on this air like none of it’s serious. I don’t think he believes he’s in enemy hands, otherwise he might have fought harder to escape. You know, go from human hand to Galra steel.”

“What are you suggesting?” Hunk asked, “That he’s acting?”

“No, not entirely. I seriously think the Champion had a… _thing_ for my brother,” Pidge confessed, though the thought made bile rise in her throat. “I don’t think he was lying about that. I think he’s used to people watching him, like opera singers on theatre stages or actors in a play.”

“So people _watch him_ torment your brother? The Terran _Prince?_ ” Hunk questioned, both in disbelief and fury. 

As much as Pidge loathed to think it, she believed that was true. She believed the torture her brother endured, was watching his knight turn against him for all the Galra to see.

  


  


This information still didn’t cover Sendak’s involvement with them, and Pidge planned to weasel this information out. When she saw the Champion again, she half-hoped he’d be back to his usual self, but instead she came face to face with white eyes and a twisted smile. His pupils had completely vanished, and were washed out just like the strip of hair hanging over his forehead. 

“Matthew, how nice of you to join me in my confinement,” the Champion drawled in the Galran tongue, swaying with the chain that kept him upright, and against the farthest wall. “Won’t you untie me, _Prince?_ Being _royal_ must give you control over your beloved prisoners.”

Pidge’s jaw set tight as she glanced over at Hunk, who seemed less than willing to accompany her here. “How many people are watching?” she demanded, and was answered with a laugh of hysteria. 

“All the people in the world, my dear Matthew— _judgement_ , I would have to call it. You must be judged as I was. You recall it, don’t you? What made me the way I am now? A Champion must undergo judgement, you see. And the people must see… and watch…” She imagined, had he been off his chains, he would be pacing, graceful hands curving this way and that like a circus master. His eyes were piercing her again. “No audience today, however. When it comes to that, you must trust me.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Because I _care for you_. I _saved you_ from that goddamn _Sendak_ —else you would have been in his custody until your judgement passed. We can _be together_ until then—and you will have your freedom! You will have anything in the world—anything you could desire,” the Champion said, voice excited and articulate as he leaned forward, trying to reach her. “You could have me, Matthew—as I you!”

“What will it take to get there?” she demanded, clutching at her stomach to avoid retching. She was surprised by how steady her voice came across. 

“You know how they tamper with me, Matthew—I won’t hurt you, I won’t—just trust me, please. Trust me, I can help you through this. It doesn’t have to be as painful as my judgement, if you would only _trust me_. It is different for you, Matthew! I quite envy you—humiliation of that degree hardly amounts to my judgement, as you know. But see me now! How I _thrive!_ ” At this point, the Champion was laughing, the chain giving him a small range of motion left and right. “How they _destroyed me_ , for all to see—cut me down—my arm! Oh yes, my arm! I still have it to this day, mounted like a great-grandfather’s sword on my mantle—ha! You _loath_ how I did that, I see it in your face now. 

“You never looked at me the same way again after that…” his voice faded instantly, and his expression matched his hollow, colorless eyes. He seemed conflicted, as if trying to recall how _he_ acted around Matthew before becoming the Champion.

Pidge felt nauseous, listening to Shiro’s downfall and knowing she needed the details. She needed to know what Matthew was going through as they spoke, comfortable in this castle away from the bloodshed. She needed to _know_ that Matthew could survive as Shiro did, for better or for worse.

“Are you involved in my judgement?” she asked, voice hoarse.

The Champion didn’t answer for a long moment, and when he did, his voice was as close to Shiro’s as she could imagine now. However, his passion was despondent now, and he seemed to struggle grasping his own sorrows. “I… I am. You see—the previous Champion handled me. It’s customary, as you know, to be anointed one must be thrown into the ring, day after day, until the desired Champion is mutilated, and taken out unconscious one way or the other. The previous Champion—she has a heart of Steel, the one who judged her having taken it. I could see the hole it left, like her skin sunk in, and when she tore my arm from me it glowed like the sun.”

So it began like this. It began with dismembering a person, and from there she didn’t want to think about what it took to become the man Shiro described as his superior. She understood now that the arm Shiro had now wasn’t his own—it wasn’t even a _fragment_ of the one he lost. The one he lost, she concluded, still remained, mounted like a hunting trophy.

“So that is how you got your arm of… Steel?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And what will become of me?” she added, pressing a hand to her chest. “Have we discussed this?”

“We have. You know how I care for you—I would never do this unless it was for your own good. I will make it as painless as possible, Matthew. You have chosen to sacrifice your hand to me, in the ring—but… but you know how they tamper with me? As they do the Champions? I cannot promise anything else will occur as it did to me—I can’t promise that—I’m sorry, Matthew, I’m sorry.” 

The conflicting emotions seemed to wear him down, until he was nothing more than a silent statue staring at the ground where Pidge’s feet were. She stepped back a tad, and looked to Hunk, who stared back with wide, remorseful eyes. She released a shaky breath and tried to ease her rapidly beating heart. “What if you aren’t there?” she asked, and he seemed unresponsive. “What if you aren’t there for my judgement?”

After a moment, he awoke again, barely enough to utter, “Do not think of that—I will be there. You don’t have to worry.”

_But he isn’t there_ , Pidge though, terror seeping into her veins. _I took him from Matthew, from helping him through this monstrosity. Matthew has no one_. 

“When is it? Do you know?” she asked, and he released a broken laugh. 

“A month from now, perhaps even less. If everything goes according to plan,” he told her, and she nearly lost her ability to stand as he said it. _A month?_ From now, or the point at which Shiro found Pidge? There was one discrepancy, which she failed to register until now, and became inclined to ask. Asking might break their window, their chance to see into the life of a Champion.

“What do you know of Samuel Holt?” she asked. “Have you seen or heard from him?”

“Samuel Holt?” he repeated, perplexed. “I don’t know the name.”

“Do you know Katherine Holt?” she continued, and was somewhat surprised to find his confusion replaced with shock. 

He jolted forward, staring at her with wild eyes. “Katherine?” he repeated, “You’ve mentioned her before—I know that name.”

“And I haven’t mentioned Samuel Holt? Not once?” she asked, eyebrows furrowing.

“Katherine Holt?” he repeated, ignoring her, leaning forward with that smile returning. “Katie— _Princess_. Princess Katie, oh yes, you speak of her fondly. Katherine Holt…” his words slurred together, repeating in a similar pattern from before—obsessive and turning frantic, scared, and at last to cowering. However, the reverse effect sprung forth tears, and they weeped down his cheeks and over the dried blood from Pidge’s attack on him.

He spoke in Altean as he gasped for breath, sagging in his restraints pleading, “Pidge, Pidge—I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…” 

“He’s back,” Hunk commented, but neither of them made a move to free him. Pidge had never seen the man cry before, and now he was sobbing, completely unrestrained regardless of what his chains suggested. Shiro threw his head back and screamed in raw agony, the sound drowning into deep, pitiful wails. She hardly understood why until she realized—

He remembered everything the Champion allowed him access to. He knew everything that happened to himself, to Matthew, and what unrelenting control the Galra had on him during the past several years. His ignorance was shattered.


	19. Out Of Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I move in to my new living arrangement this weekend, so I don't have much time to edit or anything tomorrow. So there will be a brief interlude after this chapter.

_Dear Admiral,_

_It pains me to write to you with a hand I hardly know as my own. I cannot fathom the agony I have endured, and inflicted equally on the Prince within the past several days. Truth be told, I can’t stand to see anyone, much less speak to them should I indulge myself in another traumatic episode. Allow me to explain what prompts this abrupt epigraph, in my own words that will likewise be reiterated by your King:_

_I bore the visage of the demon that nearly killed the Prince twice, and nearly mutilated him a third time. This third disaster, I hope, will be my last, as it persisted for several nights as opposed to the brief interval before. Thankfully, they were able to restrain me, though it seemed they could not restrain what I spoke to the Prince and Hunk. The description is brutal, and I wish I could say that it wasn’t me who said such things—but the words escaped my mouth, did they not? It was I who caused the Prince such devastation in and outside of the Galra Empire. Suffice to say I had every intention of mutilating him under the instructions of my superiors, but what makes it all the more terrible is that my involvement was merely the best outcome for our Prince. He is to be the next Champion, succeeding me in the Galra ranks. To do so, I would have removed a part of him—as they did my arm. I had no intentions of making him suffer unreasonably, but that is no excuse. The agony of seeing me influenced by the Galra would be enough to scar him._

_I cannot say for certain that the Prince’s Champion-hood was put off by my escape. I only wish it was—my sentence was extended brutally, through the span of several days of entertainment for the Galra noble people. For Matthew, I had no intention of dragging it out beyond the hour, so long as I could avoid having my mind tampered with by the Galra sorcerers. They enjoy theatrics, you see, and they spared no expense to the Champions, as I was one of them. To take a man’s hand for the sake of his life was my intent, as opposed to stripping a man of innocence, sanity, conscience, and an arm… I see the first as a better offer. Without me there to aid him, my guilt has rendered me useless except for holding the pen that writes this letter—even if it is the hand of the Galra. I can’t bare to think of what’s become of him now, because of me._

_I remind myself that had I not found Pidge that day, she_ would _have died. Reaching Champion-hood, hopefully, will not kill Matthew, but it will mutilate him. I believe we could salvage him as you have me. There is hope, I think. Just know that even in my insanity and my delirium, I did what I could to protect Matthew—no matter how twisted the notion became in my mind. I did what I could to save him, and to save Pidge. These are my thoughts on the matter, before I disclose this information to you following its reasoning:_

_The King, Coran, and Lance have agreed to my indefinite confinement for the sake of everyone’s safety, namely Pidge. I could never face her, and the feeling has become mutual after she saw me as I was, and am, and will be. I do not wish to continue correspondence with you, Admiral. Please disregard my affections for you from your stay, as well as the past letters. This is for your sake, as well as my own._

_Sincerely,_

_TS_

  


  


Pidge Gunderson ran a half marathon the following day. She was used to running six to nine miles per day, voluntarily even on self-defense training days. She hoped to take out her frustrations, and be too exhausted to respond to her inner musings by the end of it.

When she wasn’t running, Pidge wasn’t eating; it didn’t exactly put her body in her favor. Most of the time she felt woozy, as if she could faint, but managed to stay on her feet nonetheless. She could hardly stand to look at a book, much less read it. It didn’t help that the fiction Shiro provided her for entertainment was still on the coffee table. She would laze on the couch surrounded by blankets that made her too warm, and throw pillows that were meant for decoration, not cuddling. Pidge hated those pillows. There was no purpose for them in her life. She didn’t want to cuddle up with something scratchy, but she did anyway because she was too furious to abandon the want of _something_ there. 

She began to believe that the decorative pillows warded away thoughts of her father and brother. So she started taking them with her on the rare occasions she left the room for anything other than running. She spent some time in Hunk’s room while he worked, and simply watched him polish the metal on his weapons. He would watch her back, expression far less void that hers. He was concerned, and she knew it, so she didn’t wonder why he would ask her how she was feeling and if she ate at all. 

She met Shay once. She stopped by one day to ask Hunk if he wanted to take a walk before it rained. Rain was a frequent occurrence in Altea, Pidge noticed, which explained why the sewer and drainage system was far more advanced than in the capital of Terra. She recalled how excited Hunk became when he explained how elaborate the series of pipes were under the roads.

Mid-chat, Shay stopped, red in the face, when she found Pidge in the room. “Oh, I am so sorry for intruding, my Prince. Is now not the right time?”

“It’s fine,” she mumbled to the pillow. “You go ahead, Hunk.”

He looked weakly between the both of them, stammering, “I… I don’t know—”

“It’s okay, we can plan for another t—”

“Go, Hunk, be free,” Pidge said, shooing her hand at him. He hesitantly grabbed his coat and left his room, and soon, Pidge left as well, shutting the door behind her and trailing a pillow at her side. 

She spent some time in Lance’s room even when he wasn’t there. Most of the time he wasn’t there—only to put on a change of clothes, twirl around and ask for Pidge’s opinion. But this wasn’t often because many of his clothes were stored in the extra closet in Keith’s room. Pidge knew the purpose of that particular closet, and didn’t bother mentioning it to either of them—they probably already knew why it was there. The extra closet was meant for Keith’s future wife, the Queen to Altea, and not the serious boyfriend who had no hope in producing an heir.

So Lance was never in his room, and Pidge would just lay on a stranger’s bed for a while before growing bored of waiting. 

Eventually, she found herself standing in front of the guards in Keith’s hall. She stared at them as they stared back, and after what felt like ages, the messenger guard returned to say she could enter. Pidge sluggishly passed through the ranks and disappeared through Keith’s door and slumped onto the couch she slept on the night of the assassin attack.

Keith came out when he realized she wasn’t going any further than the sitting room, and stared at her when she didn’t move at all. “Are you all right, Pidge?” he asked, pulling up one of the armchairs and taking a seat beside her. 

She shifted so she could see him clearly, and how he tipped his head to the side and examined her state. “Depends on your definition of ‘all right’,” she answered. 

He sighed and seemed to struggle for something to say after that. Eventually she said, “You don’t have to sit around here. I just don’t want to be in my room.”

“Would you like to go for a walk around the courtyard?”

“I don’t want to go outside.”

“The sunshine is… nice.”

“It’s supposed to rain later.”

“See? I haven’t been outside yet today so I wouldn’t know,” he answered. “Come with me, then?”

“You could go with Lance. I know he’s in the other room—he wasn’t in his room and I didn’t see him at all on the walk over here. I might have lingered around your office for a little bit,” she confessed drearily, which elicited another depressed sigh from Keith. He looked at her, and his naturally condescending look almost appeared… disappointed. “You have something you’d like to say to me? That I’m being ridiculous? That I should be working on the guns you oh-so love?” she asked.

The man simply could _not_ sigh enough that day. He leaned forward a bit more, and with an elbow on his knee, he reached a hand out and placed it over Pidge’s. She didn’t pull away. “Well, yes, but that isn’t all I was going to say,” he admitted.

“Gee, thanks.”

“I just wanted you to know that you deserve to grieve, Pidge,” he told her. “You deserve to love and be loved, and this comes with the consequence of heartbreak. Losing your family fucking sucks, I know that—I thought I was all alone but _I’m not_. And you aren’t. We might not be related through the altar, but… I care about you. That sounded weirdly like a confession of my undying love, but trust me when I say that I am not as straight as they come, regardless of whether or not you look like a boy most of the time.”

Pidge clasped onto his hand and laughed, even though it broke the barrier that kept her throat tied up in knot and her waterworks in check. She hid her head against the nasty, scratchy, decorative pillow to avoid letting Keith see her cry and laugh at the same time. After a moment, the laughter faded, and she was left sobbing and trying to ignore the fact that it was loud and unattractive, and Lance—as she suspected was near—heard her. 

After a moment she felt the cushion on her back sag down, and was surprised to find a heavy weight falling on top of her. She glanced briefly at him, just to assure herself that Keith hadn’t suddenly become a cuddly person in that brief span of time. It was Lance, and he hugged her from behind and stayed there even after Keith was called out of the room by a guard, and Pidge stopped crying.

“I… don’t want to be weak anymore,” she confessed. “If I’m going to save my family, I can’t be _crying_ all the time.”

“Crying does not make you weak,” Lance murmured from behind. “I should know—I passed top of my grade and cried nearly every night over homework and exams.”

She laughed, rubbing her hands over her face. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly the emotional girl you are.”

“No shame in being an emotional girl, seeing as I totally am one,” he said, chuckling against her hair. After a brief period of silence, she felt him grin before sitting up a tad bit. “You know, I can hardly remember why I was mad at you a month ago. I never apologized for being a dick.”

“You don’t have to. Your anger was justified,” she told him, and slapped her hand over his mouth, knowing he was prepared to defy her anyway. “It was wrong of me to even take Matthew’s identity as an alias. And I’m sure, had you known back in Terra, you would have helped me. And you wouldn’t have had to feel guilty about my death way back when.”

“Yes, you were quite deceased,” he mused aloud, tapping a finger to his chin. When he grinned cheekily at her, she broke into laughter. At least he could make jokes about it now. “I’m glad you became a zombie so I could console you, and tickle you like this.” He lunged for her stomach, and even if she wasn’t all that ticklish, the effort made her howl with laughter, and her stomach hurt after a while, but Lance didn’t let up. He took the blanket from over the cushion and coiled her up in it, until she couldn’t move and couldn’t stop laughing. Sufficiently packaged, Lance tossed her over his shoulder and began the tour of Keith’s living quarters with animated gusto.

Later, when Lance had her deposited onto Keith’s bed, he ordered food and broke out a few boardgames to pass the time. Pidge was grateful for the distraction, and her vast knowledge in card games. Free time at the Garrison was mainly filled with games, or dirty stories about their girls back at home.

“We had bunks at the Garrison,” Pidge was explaining over the deck. “And we’d have bunk-mates who would also be our training partners. They were mostly randomly picked—with the amount of trainees they didn’t have much time or want to divide us up evenly. Which meant they also didn’t notice a flat-chested girl walking around almost-naked in the showers. I always wore underwear and no one questioned it. A lot of the guys did that if they didn’t feel comfortable. Though, sometimes we’d get picked on for it. There was this gang of real mean bastards, and they were known for stripping guys who covered up in the showers and I narrowly avoided it one day because the guy who came after me slipped on wet tile. Praise be to unsafe shower conditions.”

“My university had dorms, so I can’t say I had a major privacy-issue problem,” Lance said, grinning at her. “But the showers and toilets were communal. Tuesdays were completely empty unless you participated in _the challenge_.”

“The challenge?” she repeated, and instantly regretted it by the way he snickered at her.

“Once a week you’d fuck in the showers on a Tuesday—any time of the day—and if you had a consistent run of fifty-two by the end of the year, you won,” Lance said, shrugging casually as if it was the single most normal thing in society.

“What’d you win?” she asked, unsure if she wanted to know.

“Bragging rights, and a lackey to clean your clothes for a month. _And_ free birth control that could last you two months.”

“Did you ever win?”

He paused before saying, “Once. But it was a tie so I had to split the bounty, so that kinda sucked. All that work for half the pay?”

Pidge snorted, repeating, “ _Work_? As if.”

“Shut up. It helped that I’d had a girlfriend at the time—well, _half_ the time. So I mean, I’m sure had she been more promiscuous before we got together, I would have had to’ve divided the earnings between _three_ people. A triple tie.” 

“ _You_ had a _girlfriend_?”

“I have a lot of love to give, my friend.”

“Evidently,” Pidge muttered, smirking as Lance shoved her by the shoulder. “Speaking of which, I don’t know how I feel sitting on Keith’s bed.”

“They just cleaned the sheets—don’t worry about it,” he dismissed her concern, but his statement made her a tad bit more disturbed. Still, she stayed there, and finished several more games there, until Keith returned and found them making a mess of his bed with boardgames strewn across it, and the remnants of food on a plate beside them.

“Do you want to join in?” Lance asked, sitting up a tad as Keith frowned at them from the end of the bed. He wound up taking a seat on the cushioned bench there, and rested his arms on the comforter. 

“No, just observing,” he said. “How are you feeling, Pidge?”

“Fine.”

“Well,” he started, pursing his lips, “I just had to take care of a few things, which included visiting Shirogane.” She paused mid-shuffle, and started dividing up the cards amongst the three of them. “I just wanted to let you know that he’s in the private cells in the keep, if you ever happened to want to visit him. It’s… more comfortable in comparison to the regular cells.”

“I… I don’t know. Not today, anyway,” Pidge confessed, furrowing her brows. “I’m not in the mood to be apologized to profusely just because I feel like shit about the entire affair.”

“How did Shiro seem?” Lance asked, glancing narrowly at Pidge before saying it.

“Depressed. He wrote a letter to Allura—Coran had me read it before sending it off,” Keith confessed with a sigh, reluctantly taking his set of cards. “He’s retracted his affections for her, and is planning on cutting off communication with her.”

“Why would he do that?” Pidge asked, her eyes boring holes in Keith’s countenance. The man cleared his throat before continuing.

“I’ve put together that he feels as though he’s lied to us. He has a lot to work out, Pidge, and I can’t say for certain that he’ll ever be able to move past this. He doesn’t want to hurt Allura as he did to you.” As Keith said it, Lance patted a hand on Pidge’s arm, and she released a heavy breath that contained all of her anxiety. As much as she tried to release the troubles, they still clung to her like hot, suffocating air.

“I will talk to him. Eventually,” she determined. But who knew how far along “eventually” would come?

  


_Pidge: The real question is how long can I procrastinate the inevitable..._

__

  


Hunk continued to teach Pidge and Lance as best he could, but most of the time Pidge and Lance would roll around on the floor dying of laughter given the strangeness of attacker-on-victim stances. She would bearhug Lance from behind that just made her feel like a leech _on_ the bear—she wasn’t made for the attacker position, given the fact that she was an entire head or two shorter than him. He would lean his torso down, and her feet would leave the ground, and they’d both be giggling until she swayed off to the side and fell off his back.

Hunk did little to keep them on track—in fact, he would encourage them and pile on top of them as a way to stop their antics, and just increase their hysteria more. The only reason Pidge’s six-pack got any tougher was from laughing so damn hard.

For a while, though, after the incident with the Champion, Pidge hadn’t participated in the practices. She still ran daily, and even more so after Keith and Lance broke her out of her shell. In the mirror she noticed the difference the Garrison made on her, and Shiro’s training as well. Her legs had always been toned and defined, but she never bothered to confess how massive her calf muscles were, or the weight of her thighs. They were hard and muscled, and attributed to her round bum, semi-flat hips, and the cylindrical form of her abs around her belly-button.

Pidge rubbed her fingers over the burn mark on her shoulder, near the area where her trapezius muscle was becoming noticeable. The skin was wrinkly and uneven, and an unusual shade of white. Her thumb dipped into the crevices where the charred flesh used to be, and sighed. It didn’t matter now. It didn’t hurt, so she shouldn’t have to think about it.

She suited up for a run, and as she stretched out on the castle steps, the sun wasn’t quite out yet. The light still released a dim glow that caught on oncoming thunderclouds. _Rain again_ , she thought, leaning over her legs as she observed the darkening sky. “Without the pipes, the streets would smell like sewage every day,” Hunk told her once.

“Or be in standing water,” she mused to herself, and started her trek circumnavigating the castle walls. 

The distance around the castle was approximately a mile and a half—at least, this was what she and Shiro calculated on their daily runs. They would circle it twice, three times on a good day. Now, Pidge was used to four laps. She’d wave to the early-rising servants, and guards finishing their third-shift duties. They were all smiling when they saw her, and she found that it was a great way to start out the day. She came to appreciate their constant joy in seeing her.

The air was heavy with oncoming rain, and she paused on her third lap to give her lungs a chance to breath properly. Huffing, she put her hands on her hips, and then over her head, and paced underneath a maple tree until she was fit again. 

Her eyes skimmed down the path she came from, and noted a servant walking her way, carrying a basket of clothes at her hip. Pidge waved to her, and she released a hand to wave back. “You should get inside, miss, before the downpour,” the servant commented, accent heavy.

“I don’t mind the rain. Not when I’m _this_ sweaty,” Pidge confessed with a laugh, rubbing at her forehead where her hair stuck to it. 

Casual banter, Pidge thought. The servant gave her a smile, and it was then that Pidge registered what the servant said. _Miss_. “Wait, you said—” Pidge started to correct her as the servant passed her, and she took notice of the high neckline on the woman’s uniform. It wasn’t the usual servant apparel—and it gave way to a purplish tint rising on her skin. 

Just as Pidge noticed it, the woman spun on her, flinging her basket and retracting a blade from the clothes. The basket hit Pidge in the chest, and she nearly shoved it away before holding it up as a shield to catch the blade that ran towards her throat. It merely slitted the woven basket, and sent the weft fraying. 

Pidge gawked at her as she shoved the basket away and held her hands back from being pinned. She hardly noticed the familiar, hollow look in the woman’s eyes until she took a hit to the stomach. She doubled forward and instantly had a hand at her throat, thrusting her neck back. Pidge’s head crashed against the bark of the maple, and the woman was directly before her now.

The edge of the blade nicked Pidge’s chin.

“H-Hey!” Pidge shouted, and yelled for help until her voice was caught in her throat by the hand that gripped her tighter, suffocating her windpipe.

“ _Don’t_ speak. Do not fight back. Follow me.” The woman’s harsh tongue cut through Pidge’s head and struck her with a crippling migraine. Despite the throbbing in her skull, and the blade at her throat, Pidge managed not to scream. In fact, her voice was rendered completely useless the second she tried to use it.

The woman studied her for a moment, white eyes unnerving. After a second, the woman retracted her knife and pocketed it despite the fact that they both heard guards running their way. She turned away from Pidge, and she lurched to run, and wound up simply stepping up beside the woman. Everything inside Pidge was prompting her to sprint away, but even the smallest step away turned into a shuffle—something wasn’t right here.

The head guard had his bow poised, arrow knocked and targeting the woman—Pidge was partially in his line of sight, and wondered if the man could even aim such a well-aimed arrow when Pidge couldn’t even move a muscle in her body.

Out of the corner of her eye, Pidge watched the woman sweep her arms up at the guards, and Pidge’s stomach lurched as every one of the guards slammed to a halt. With another twist of her hands, the sound of bones snapping and breaking rendered them all silent. After a second, the warped bodies collapsed to the ground like puppets, limbs haphazardly splayed over the ground.

The woman grabbed Pidge by the hand without a second thought, and soon she was running, unwillingly, with the Galra sorceress.

There was a rope tossed over the wall, and the spikes at the top of it, and soon the woman hissed at her, “Climb,” and Pidge did just that. She swayed over the spikes at the top, and dropped down the other side. Her legs fell to the ground harshly, and the pressure sent her staggering and falling. She stayed there, motionless without direction until the woman joined her, wrapping the rope around one of her arms as she grabbed hold of Pidge and said, “Follow. You are a commoner now.”

Pidge’s brain turned to clay, and as she fought the migraine that prompted her over the edge, it consumed her still. Her entire head was on fire, yet not a word escaped her mouth. Her hands remained firm in their casual sway, the casual walk she performed beside the woman. They merged into the streets like they lived amongst the people people who wandered it.

She tried to hold onto something that would keep her consciousness present, but her personal will began to fade. She grasped for it, and the call to retain it surged all the more when the woman guided her to a carriage.

_Don’t get in. Don’t get in_. 

The woman propped open the door and urged Pidge’s hand inside. Her palm rested on the seat, and she hesitated. She wanted to scream with joy— _I stopped myself_. She began to retract her fingers, cringing with the effort, until suddenly the woman said, “Get in the carriage.” All will was lost, and Pidge complied. 

_Dammit._


	20. Fortitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready for a 6k chapter? 'Cause I'm ready for a 6k chapter.

“Have you seen Pidge yet today?” Hunk asked Lance as they ate lunch together by one of the large bay windows on the second floor. Rain pattered against the glass, and the light over Lance’s face became specks of shadows, racing down his skin and the pursed expression he turned to Hunk.

“No. Why, have you? Is she doing better?” he asked, and Hunk wished to know the same thing. Every time he saw Pidge, he just wanted to give her a hug. She deserved a hug or two, but Hunk was afraid they weren’t at the hugging-stage yet. Were they friends? Hunk didn’t know. They never discussed that topic, and he just assumed…

Hunks hook his head and said, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her today, which is strange. She usually comes by my room before lunch.”

Lance scoffed at him and said, “Yeah, because she knows you’ll treat her to lunch.”

Hunk was about to deny it, but it was true. He came to the conclusion that Pidge was a fan of peanut butter cookies, and made a point to have the kitchen staff give her one whenever they ate together. “Okay, so perhaps that’s true…”

“But you haven’t seen her?”

“No.”

“Did you say something that would make her mad?” Lance asked, opening his mouth and scarfing down another bite of a sandwich. As the advisor licked his lips and went for another on Hunk’s plate, the guard glowered out the window and tried to think over the last thing he said to Pidge.

She didn’t seem more upset than usual. She was always a bit gloomy these days. “I… don’t think I said anything that would make her mad. But what if I did? How do I apologize for something I don’t remember saying? Oh, she probably hates me…” he moaned dreadfully. He knew he was terrible at comforting people—he just didn’t like to see them sad. And yet Pidge moped around his room daily and all he could do was go on doing his usual everyday tasks and try not to make her more upset. She always seemed content just watching him or lazing on his couch. 

What if she was looking for someone to talk to and he just wasn’t doing that? 

_Oooh God…_

“Relax, Hunk, I doubt she hates you,” Lance laughed, shaking his head. “I was half-kidding, sort of. You could never make her upset.”

“I don’t know…”

“ _Hunk_. Honestly. Pidge just has a lot going on right now. She’s probably meditating on it or something weird like that _,”_ Lance said with a shrug. After a minute of deep thought, Hunk went for another sandwich and ate it, thinking, _Yeah, she’s probably meditating_.

  


  


Pidge was struggling against her restraints ever since her mind came back to her and she was left unattended beneath a dripping pine tree and a dismal downpour. Her hair was matted against her head and over her eyes, so she rubbed her face against her shoulder to try and _see properly_. 

The carriage got stuck in the mud not too long ago, and she was extracted from it with the intent of decreasing the weight, and making it easier to extract from the mud. There were three men with that devilish woman, and as every one of them stooped behind the carriage, lifting it from the mud and pushing it forward, Pidge realized that they were all Galran, and not quite advanced in the hierarchy. Sure, they were inhumanely strong being able to lift the carriage like that, but they didn’t have enhanced limbs or appearances like the woman did. 

For some reason, the woman’s appearance seemed… _natural_ somehow, and not unrealistic like Shiro’s Champion state. When she was in her normal garb, Pidge could see the purplish undertone of her skin, and how it didn’t seem ghastly or sickly. She was just… _purple_. And her eyes were hard to ignore now that her guise of a servant was gone. In fact, as the light faded from the sky and the gloominess overhead loomed, the woman’s eyes seemed to glow as she turned them to Pidge. Pidge froze in her place the second she had the woman’s attention.

“Are you quite done?” the woman asked in a snarl, voice like gravel that grated against Pidge’s ears. She had ceased squirming, and now sat with her shoulders bunched up around her ears. Her mind was working at a thousand miles per hour, now that she had _control_ over it, and she wanted to know everything. She wanted to know what this woman was all about, who these men were to her, how they got through the Barrier—how she _killed those guards_.

She killed those guards.

They were most certainly dead, Pidge knew this. And she felt the crushing weight shove her chest at the thought of their family, friends, mourning over their ashes. 

And then Pidge was furious, all hint of fear extracted by the burning sensation in her chest. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded, lurching forward and onto her knees, and heaved herself to her feet as the woman watched, unamused and hardly terrified by Pidge’s ferocity.

“My name is none of your concern,” she answered, and thankfully it wasn’t laced with that authority spell that got Pidge here in the first place. Pidge still felt the desire to know who she was. “Get in,” she demanded, cranking open the door and gesturing for Pidge to enter it. After a jolt of hesitation, Pidge’s feet obeyed her command, and she slumped once again, completely still, in the carriage. The woman slammed the door shut, and through the blackened windows, Pidge watched the rain patter against the ground, and rush in a torrent around the carriage.

They went on for some time, and with the sorceress’s concentration solely on Pidge, it was impossible to think of anything, anything at all. Pidge slumped into a hollow shell within that carriage, and all her thoughts and feelings became condensed, as if chased into some small hole in a recess of her mind. She became, and was, nothing in that carriage.

And given this fact, time became irrelevant—an abstract thing that was hard to grasp hold of. Therefore, Pidge could not tell whether or the sunrise was a new day, the evening, the morning. It was lost to her, as was the darkness that followed.

She was at last deposited out of that empty carriage and onto the grass. Her body felt numb, and the hand that held her arm was the only feeling about her. Hot and searing, tearing at her flesh until she tried to process what it was— _who_ it was. The woman, the sorceress, had her hold on Pidge again, and being in contact with her gave Pidge some form of stability. She began to see the color around her, the trees, the blue sky, and the figure that loomed in the distance, concealing half of the world from her in an all-encompassing brownish-white. 

Pidge stared at it until she could come up with a word for it. _The Barrier_. They were at the Barrier. The Barrier. How were they going to get past it? There had to be some way other than the gates…

_No_ , Pidge stopped herself, and the force of her indignation sent her thoughts whirling out of the hole the sorceress shoved them into. _No, this isn’t my concern. To get_ past _the Barrier? I have to stay within it. Get to the capital. The capital_. 

_The only family left that you have is on the other side_ , her brain rationalized. _Go to them. Find your father, and brother, and save them_. 

But Pidge knew that the thought was hardly rational. How could she possibly save them, on her own? Without help? Without proper training? No, she had training. She was a skilled fighter now, thanks to Shiro and Hunk. She could, and would, get out of this mess—whether or not that took her from one side of the Barrier to the other.

The woman released Pidge’s hand for a moment to speak with the men as they talked with someone—an Altean citizen. They weren’t in a city, or a town, but a small, minuscule village in comparison to the cities Pidge, Shiro, Hunk, and Lance rode through. They were in what could be considered the last country land in Altea, that was pushed to the outskirts nearest the wall. 

Aware of her surroundings, Pidge freed her foot from where it felt nailed to the ground. Tearing it free gave her access to her other foot, and then another step, until she gained motion of her hands and arms. She discretely stretched them out, flexing her muscles before finally finding herself behind the woman and—

Pidge raised an elbow, and thwacked her down with a well-aimed hit to the back of her head. The second the woman fell, Pidge cranked her foot back and nailed her in the head again. Unconscious. 

The men were coming at her faster than her newly-regained control could master. She ducked the arms that came to throttle her, and swung her foot out to trip him. He went to the ground and as he snatched her leg, she dodged another attack, and took a brutal punch to the stomach in return for it. She staggered, tripping over the lad on the ground and trying to retrieve her breath without success. 

It wasn’t until they had her arms pinned behind her, forced to the ground, that Pidge realized the villager had run off, and her foot was on _fire_ from kicking the woman in the head. _So much for boots being sufficient protection_ , she thought, grunting as one of the men hauled her off the ground. 

“Stop that man,” he ordered one of his comrades, who instantly ran off to take out the villager. Pidge snarled at him, jostling her shoulders to and fro to try and get loose. She wracked through her brain before deciding on her next plan of attack. She dropped her entire weight, and as the man leaned forward to try and heave her up, she craned her neck forward, and rammed her head back a second later, cracking it straight against his nose. 

The remaining thug swung his arm back, and before she could brace for impact, he struck her across the face with the back of his hand. She gasped at the unreasonable amount of pain a bitchslap could inflict, and she fumbled to free herself from the loosened grasp of her captor. She cranked one wrist free, and instantly went for the knife on his belt. 

He held a hand to his nose and it didn’t register for a moment that Pidge rammed the blade back into his side until they were both falling. Heat swelled around her hand, and when she retracted the blade, it went gushing over her shirt and soaking to the ground. 

The man who hit her was still up, and swinging his foot at her. She swept behind her captor, flopping to the ground and narrowly avoiding being kicked. With a swing of her legs, Pidge was on her feet, and blocking the lunge the man made for her as the other one bled out on the ground. She watched them with wide, frenzied eyes, hardly processing anything beyond the adrenaline making her heart rise to her throat with an intense beat that deafened her eardrums.

She readied her fists, the pommel of the knife still tight in her grasp, and swayed her body low and broad, close to the ground. The man being as tall as he was, had the appearance of a hunter trying to corral a beast. Without hardly giving way to her intentions, Pidge rummaged left and right, and finally clocked a hit against his cheek. One hit later, she was landing another, and another, and hammering into him like a bloodthirsty savage—unyielding, and oh-so hungry for revenge.

With the knife, she cut him down, stabbing for his neck and winding up caught between his collarbone. The blade caught, and she couldn’t get it out, and so she, too, fell, and not without receiving a final hit from him—desperate to make damage before dying.

The dagger he had in his hand then cut into her side, spearing the taunt flesh at her side and provoking a scream from her as she finally dislodged her knife, and brought her hands to the one he left in her. He rolled to the side, gurgling up blood, before lying still. 

_The other one_ , she panicked, holding onto the blade in her side as she forced herself to her feet. She knew the other man was probably coming, on his way at that moment, but she limped to the woman still unconscious on the ground, and kneeled next to her. She took the knife, steading it over her throat. Without the heat of battle, she hardly felt willing to sever this woman from life.

_Do it! Fucking kill her already_ , Pidge hissed at herself, a sneer growing on her lips as she looked away and sunk the blade down. The flesh squelched around the metal as she retracted the blade, and with a heavy breath and strained muscles, rose back to her feet.

At a painful jog, Pidge ran, both hands pressed over the blade in her side and trying not to cry at the pain of feeling it jostle around. He didn’t rupture any organs, she knew that much, but she felt like a kebab with the end of the knife sticking out the other side. The blade was the poorly-inserted toothpick, and Pidge, the flesh of some raw meat.

  


  


“Pidge? Missing?” Shiro echoed the words Coran passed down to him, watching him silently through the hole in the door. It was the only crevice in the room, other than the minuscule window hole in the far corner behind him. The window itself was several feet beyond the bars in the way, though, and angled upwards. It was the only source of light in his cell, but he didn’t mind. He preferred the dark—it matched his emotions perfectly now that Coran’s news started to settle in.

“She disappeared early this morning while on a run. Three guards were taken out in the process. It looks to be the work of sorcery—the sort the Galra participate in,” Coran explained, and leaned a hand against Shiro’s solid cell door. Shiro stared at him as the redheaded advisor shook his head in disdain. “We didn’t think anything of it in the morning, but Hunk was concerned. He was asking the entire staff until the second shift of guards rotated and found part of the first shift on the east wall completely taken out.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Shiro asked, his distress creasing his forehead, and sending his hands to his hair. “You’re telling me the last free member of the Terran royal family was _taken_ and _no one thought anything of it?_ ”

“I’m not saying that,” Coran corrected. 

“Why didn’t you send another guard with her? She _needs_ a guard, Coran—she’s just as important as Keith.” Shiro groaned, correcting himself, “ _Needed_. Have you gotten any word from search parties?”

“Yes, a few,” Coran said. “But I’m not obliged to share that information. I simply wanted to know if you had any idea of this kidnapping happening.”

Shiro stared at him in shock. He knew full well what Coran thought of him—untrustworthy, possibly Galran, the one who nearly killed both Hunk _and_ Pidge in the gym. Who nearly _raped_ Pidge. Shiro didn’t question him at all on those impressions. Anyone with a right mind would keep Shiro in this cell for the rest of eternity. But all this didn’t mean he was still working for the Galra.

“I assure you, Coran, I had _no_ part in this. I haven’t seen Pidge in a week—much less know how her habits have changed.”

“She does seem to have habits,” Coran commented. “Ones you instilled on her. Running everyday at the same time? The same training schedule?”

“That’s basic knowledge for trainees,” Shiro exclaimed, exasperated. “Routine is the foundation of all training—the Garrison instill that in her before I did! I never purposefully endangered her, Coran!”

The senior advisor studied him a while longer through the barred opening in the door. Eventually, he dropped his gaze and gave a woeful nod, lips pursed. “All right then. Have a nice evening, Shiro.”

Coran began walking off, but Shiro flung himself up against the door and gripped at the bars, shouted, “Wait! Coran—” He faltered when the advisor looked back at him, seemingly annoyed. Shiro cleared his throat, voice weakening, “Before Pidge was presumably taken—was she okay? Was she doing all right?”

Coran considered Shiro for a moment, not moving an inch until he finally said, “She wasn’t for a while there, but she was better. She was fine.”

Shiro slumped against the door, his head against the thin gap between the bars as Coran proceeded to walk away, and out of the private cell corridor. Shiro stared ahead at the empty cell in front of him, and remained there for some time before retreating back to the bed, sitting down, falling back, and standing up again.

He began stretching out his arms, pushing his palms against his shoulder blades, and stretching his biceps across his chest. He cranked his elbows back and forward, crossing his arms before lowering into a pushup position. There, he aimed to count the seconds—up, down, up, down—before finally reaching ten minutes. He rotated to sit-ups, crunches; and for the next several hours distracted himself with training. 

At this point, there wasn’t much else he could do to prevent from going crazy, especially after digesting the news of Pidge’s disappearance. He could hardly stomach it.

  


_Shiro evolves into Iroh from Avatar: The Last Airbender_

  


Pidge’s abdomen became the furnace that burned her entire torso, and tore at the crippling ache in her side. She wished she had a needle on her to stitch the wound up, but for now, it was plugged by the dagger that caused her all this pain in the first place. At first the thought of escaping to the next town over sounded like a genius idea—she’d be far enough away to avoid immediate detection, and she’d be able to find help, and someone to lend sewing supplies. But obviously, her wound had other plans.

She collapsed somewhere between the two villages as night became never-ending darkness, and shadows that loomed where the crops were highest. The path she stumbled across was for the farm workers—too narrow for a carriage, but just enough for one of the horses _from_ the carriage to come galavanting through. She knew it was a terrible idea to go on traveled roads, but she couldn’t help it. The last time she stepped over a log the edge of the dagger nearly slit the wound open wider.

Her hands were shaking, and her arms turned to noodles as she fell onto her elbows and panted in sharp, low breaths. _Just a bit further_ , she prompted herself, and, positioning a hand over her side, struggled to stand. Her legs were weary, but they carried her to the end of the field, and the intersection it brought her to. She looked for lights, for _anything_ signaling civilization.

And then she spied a plume of smoke rising in the distance, and catching the light of the moon.

It was enough to give her the energy to hurry onwards. 

She was so excited to reach the door that by the time she got there, she was even more out of breath, and on the verge of fainting. She could barely form the fist to knock. When the door was answered, she was greeted by a curious dog, and an owner snapping, “Get, Rover, get.” The pup circled back into the house, and it wasn’t until the man got a good look at her did Pidge realize just how terrible she looked, and how much blood she lost. 

“I-I just need a needle and thread, sir,” she stammered, breathless. 

“Sweet Lord Almighty—get inside, boy,” he said hurriedly, grasping her unwounded side by the arm and aiding in her assent to the foyer.

The man shouted to his daughter for the sewing supplies as he hurried Pidge to the kitchen. The table was cleared off, and a towel thrown over it. She groaned as she lowered herself down, her hands awkwardly holding the dagger in place. “Keep it there while I get us some water,” he told her, and left to fetch it. 

Pidge stared at the ceiling and panted, her head straining and her entire body stiff, as if by sheer will she could stop the bleeding. Eventually, though, the girl rushed into the room and called for her father. He returned with a bowl of water and several rags. 

“Here, bite on this,” he ordered, holding a towel to Pidge’s mouth. She knew what that meant, but did it anyway and braced herself as the man took the dagger by the pommel, and retracted it from her skin. His daughter made a weak noise and attempted to excuse herself, but her father snapped his fingers and ordered her to hold a towel against it. 

“Blade doesn’t look too dirty—did ya get it filthy at all on the way here?” he asked Pidge, who shook her head.

“No, sir,” she bit out, muffled by the towel. The pressure the girl put on her side was bruising as her father doused the needle in alcohol and threaded it. As the man set to work, she focused her attention on the dog panting at her side, watching with its paws on the bench, and his nose just barely high enough to peer over Pidge’s shoulders.

Pidge opted not to recollect the sensation of cold metal weaving in and out of her flesh. He made quick work of it as well, and soon Pidge was being wrapped around her midsection with a bandage. She held her shirt up over her chest, thankful that they made no point to have her strip. “You mind tellin’ me how this happened?” the man asked, finishing up by taping it firmly.

She rolled down her shirt before saying, “Hit and run. Where could I contact the authorities?”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Nearest place that’ll be at is five miles from here. Walkin’ round so soon wouldn’t be such a grand idea.”

“I can take it—”

“I’m sayin’ that because a walk that far would tear up my work there. You’ll be worse off then—you’ve lost enough blood as it is,” he told her, resting a hand on the table. His daughter was cleaning out the bloody bowl and rags in the background, and the sound of running water was soothing. “Stay the night here, and I can check on the wound in the morning. I’ll send my daughter off to town for you at first light—sound good?”

Pidge was in no position to argue. Her chest felt warm and fuzzy from their hospitality. “That sounds perfect. Thank you so much, sir.”

He laughed, patting her gently on the shoulder. “I couldn’t very well turn you away, now could I?” She would have laughed, if it wouldn’t cause her stitches to eject across the room. 

He helped her down from the table, and offered her the floor in the living room. It was a small space, cozy, and fitted with a fireplace and a vase of wildflowers on a table. She stood by as he got together a blanket and pillow for her, and helped her to the floor. His daughter came in with a plate of jam on bread, and a cup of water. Pidge didn’t think her stomach could take it, but surprisingly, she was starved. She ate it all up, and took short sips of the water to avoid upsetting her stomach.

The man held back the pup as she ate, and once finishing off the plate, he offered her whiskey. After debating it, she accepted—it’d be the easiest way to knock herself out tonight if she even planned on sleeping. If it weren’t for the burning sensation on her side, she would have conked out by then.

As she took gentle sips from the flask, the man crouched on his knees and asked, “How far’s your family from here?”

“Long ways away,” she answered. 

“Then what brought you this far out?” he asked, and when she didn’t answer directly, he sighed, eyebrows raised an a resolved look on his face. “You shouldn’t be wandering around by yourself, boy. But I won’t lecture you now. Holler if you need anything—and if anythin’ at all feels wrong with the stitches—”

“Yes, sir. I’ll holler,” she said, wincing as she lowered herself onto her back, and put the cap on his flask. He took it and bid her goodnight. He went about blowing out the lights, and she asked that one remain lit. He left it still, because she preferred a bit of light, especially after the assassin attack at the castle. 

The night passed excruciatingly slowly, and every time Pidge found herself gaining consciousness, she cursed a little and tried to force herself back to sleep. She would do anything for the gift of a sorcerer right now, just for the sake of knocking her out painlessly and without medication. Instead, she fought through it, and was up hours before the sun even rose, absently petting at the dog named Rover who sat next to her, drooling with its pointed ears perked and flopped to the side.

She had a lot of time to study Rover, the pup that was hardly a puppy, but hardly the old geezer his appearance claimed he was. He had an entirely white snout that showed evidence of past black fur, and a bald spot near his nose. Rover did little to hinder Pidge’s curiosity when she pushed at the scar that appeared to be there, and the scars elsewhere that showed up as bald patches. The black and white fur over his face morphed into a golden-red hue on his underside, with medium-length hair and a big, floppy tail she noticed was missing an inch on the end. He started flopping his tail around when she tugged at it. 

His ears were always perked, but at some point, when the sun wasn’t quite up, but was near enough to illuminate the clouds overhead, they perked higher. Rover ceased his panting, his underbite revealing crooked teeth and red gums. Pidge scratched under his chin until she was called to attention by Rover’s alerted stance. He jumped to his paws, and started for the hall where his master’s bedroom was.

Pidge lifted up to her elbows and watched after Rover as he emitted a low growl. She never owned a dog, other than the hunting dogs her father had, but she swore they rarely growled at their owner, or growled unnecessarily. Then again, hunting dogs weren’t meant to be pets—she had a feeling Rover wasn’t exactly either.

Pidge started to get up, wincing at the strain it put on her side. She just got to her feet, gripping onto the couch armrest, when a shout erupted from the man’s bedroom, and Rover went into a fit. He lunged at the closed door and clawed at it ruthlessly, and Pidge swore she heard a stranger’s voice in there, and not the man who saved her. 

She scrambled across the room to the foyer and looked out the window. There was a horse out there, and she fought to remember what the horses looked like on the carriage. She was in such a daze at that time, she could hardly tell what kind of horses they were, let alone what color their coats were. Pidge nearly left the cabin to run away, only to come upon the horrible realization that there was a worried mumble from the other side of the house—the daughter.

“What’s going on?” she whispered, staring wide-eyed at Pidge. The entire cabin was quiet—the girl was in plain sight of the hallway where Rover whimpered. 

Pidge rushed forward, all pain in her side forgotten as instinct took over, and her adrenaline sent her into a tizzy. “You need to leave—go to the town _now_ , get every last officer you can find—” Pidge started, only to be interrupted by the creak of the door down the hall. They were hidden in the foyer, out of view, but Rover’s response told them whoever emerged from the room definitely wasn’t this girl’s father. 

Rover went into a hysteric fury as Pidge pushed the girl to the door, shouting, “Grab his horse! Go! It will be faster!”

“I’m not leaving!” she cried back, scrambling back into the house even when Pidge pushed her out of it. 

She went for the foyer closet, and Pidge cringed at the thought of their lives being in her hands. She’d be responsible for them, for their deaths, for their lives, now that she was in their home. And as the girl extracted a dust-covered sword from amid the folds of coats and trousers, Pidge lunged for it and swiped it out of her hands. 

“Hey—”

“I know how to fight—get on the damn horse before he kills you,” Pidge hissed at her, her stare threatening as she unsheathed the sword and tossed the cover away into the kitchen. After staring at her for a long moment, the girl relented, and left just as Rover gave out a pitiful cry and ceased his attack. 

The girl shut the door in the silence that followed, and instantly the attacker’s footsteps were heading towards the foyer. Pidge tucked herself against the wall, panting hard, and favoring her wounded side as she waited for him to come around. The candle she kept lit all night was starting to give out, having melted into a puddle of wax on a plate, but it was enough to show the shadow that emerged through the living room, and hesitated at her corner.

Pidge held her breath, silent as she processed his breathing, the strain of his exertion, knowing that he’d been wounded between the process of hurting Pidge’s savior, and the pup Rover. She wasn’t any better off—worse, maybe, but that didn’t stop her from caving and whirling around the corning in a blind fury.

She swung her sword at him with all the strength she could muster, screaming as she collided with him, and sent them both into the living room. He staggered and countered her attack, their swords clashing and straining against one another. She gauged his size—taller, about Hunk’s height—and his muscle, all lean and toned, not a speck of fat on him. There was blood oozing off his leg, and she felt the slick warmth of it when she dislodged the balance of his sword, and swung her elbow up at his face before kicking his legs. Her kicking strength wasn’t as great, and hardly did a thing other than catch him off guard. 

He abandoned his sword for a moment to throw a punch at her, but in her height gave her the advantage of ducking under his level, and gathering strength to sweep her sword up, and narrowly miss catching his shirt.

He stumbled back, and collapsing against the shelving unit with the candle wax on it. The dish clattered, and hot wax stuck to his skin. He yelped, shaking his hand out as Pidge swung hard with her sword. The action stretched her wound and made it feel like her entire body was tearing it two. She broke stride, staggering under the pain.

As she nearly fell, the fiend grabbed for the wax bowl and flung it at her. She leapt away, but caught a strand of it on her shirt. It clung to the fabric and burned her stomach. The heat of it was hardly enough to distract her from the sword coming down at her at an alarming rate. 

As they both seethed, her attacker bit out curses, saying things like, “You— _bitch_! You killed—them!” between swings of his sword, and clashes of their blades. 

“I didn’t—-know you—were capable of— _remorse!_ ” Pidge snarled between trying to catch her balance, and blocking his hits. Pidge was falling back, narrowly missing tripping over her bedding arrangement, and the wall he then clashed his sword into. The blade stuck, and just as Pidge stumbled to get away, she was met with the snarls of Rover, and the blood that smeared the dog’s nose as he leapt from the couch and dove for the man. 

The fiend had his sword raised, and Pidge cut at his arm just in time to avoid watching Rover turn into a kebab. His jaws clamped around the man’s jaw, and sent him screaming and Rover growling, snarling, tearing at his flesh. Pidge yelped for Rover to stop, but the dog was relentless, until at last the sword that tumbled out of the man’s hand was picked up by Pidge and thrown out of range. The man used both hands to push at the dog, weak and dying, until at last losing enough blood to faint or—as Pidge hoped—die.

Rover did what all dogs do with toys—tear them about by shaking their head viciously before ceasing his attack altogether. 

The dog looked at her, unfazed, and sneezed contently. She stared at Rover, ignoring the mess they both made of the living room, and reached out to give him a nervous pat on the head.

“Good boy.”


	21. Damaged Expenses

Pidge had been so busy preventing her life from being torn apart by a sword that she barely noticed that the hot wax still had a flame, and that it was spreading. _Fast_.

She caught sight of the light as she turned around, and screamed aloud as she realized it started with the couch, and was eating its way towards them. She abandoned the fiend and grabbed Rover by the collar, hauling him around behind the couch and towards the foyer before realizing—

The girl’s father was still in his bedroom.

Pidge ran for the door and shut Rover outside it before turning back at a limp-slash-run. She careened around the corner, skidding away from the flames that gnawed at the floorboards, and down the hall to the open door where Rover battled with their enemy. Inside, she found a blood-soaked bed, and the blankets torn to the side, sinking down to where she found his body limp on the ground. 

As she heard the crackle of the fire behind her, she dropped down beside him and looked for the damage—a cut meant for his throat, but caught on his collarbone. The skin was flayed open, still bubbling with fresh red liquid. It meant he was still alive. 

She panted as she untangled him from the sheets and aimed to carry him. She got as far as hoisting his arm over her shoulders before realizing that his window was wide open where the intruder came in. So she _wouldn’t_ have to haul him all the way through the inferno, and to the front door. 

Rover was howling up a storm outside the house as she pushed her savior out the window, and fumbled out after him. She landed hard on her back and grunted, sputtering in agony. She felt bloody all over, and wondered if the fresh red on her side was from the man or _her_. She didn’t want to check.

She was greeted by Rover, who was mostly concerned about his owner whom he adored and licked profusely at his cheek. Pidge stayed on the ground, feeling as though her chest was compressed with some terrible weight that smelled a little like campfire smoke. 

Suddenly, the man stammered to life, breath weak and failing him when he tried to speak above the lapping of Rover’s tongue against his stubbled cheek. He was pale as could be as he reached a hand up to Rover, lips stumbling and slick with blood. “W-Wh-Watch ov-ver Nyma for me,” he said to Rover, who slobbered over him still, releasing a low whine that ripped through Pidge’s side more than the wound did. “Ok-kay, bud?”

Just then, he turned his neck, and noticed Pidge as his arm slumped over his chest, and he seemed to lose strength to hold his gaze up. “I-Is she alive?”

Pidge swallowed hard and said, “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” 

  


  


As it happened, the girl returned as the sun just hovered above the horizon and washed a dreary morning light over the farmlands. One wouldn’t think that anything terrible had happened that morning until any neighbors within a five-mile radius heard the wailing of the daughter, Nyma, finding her father dead and her house in ashes.

Pidge felt so terrible. If she’d done a swell job at fucking up her own life, she did a marvelous job of fucking up Nyma’s life. She even said so, and apologized profusely until she became aware that the girl hardly wanted an apology. 

Rover hovered everywhere around where Pidge was as Nyma grieved over his owner. He followed her to the officers, who were informed of her stature, and matched her appearance to that of a wanted poster a messenger pigeon brought in late last night. As they hurried to bring her to the town, she grounded herself where the flames of the house scorched the hairs off her arms, and left her entire body throbbing in physical and mental agony.

The girl was crouched next to her father, her hands over her face. Pidge approached her, leaving the officers, and sat across from her awkwardly. She wasn’t sure how to comfort people—even at the Garrison when the cadets shared their sobs stories of family members being murdered in front of them, she didn’t know how to respond to it. _Could_ she respond to it, having never experienced it before? 

She could, or at least she did, considering both her father and brother were taken from her. They were still living though. She hoped.

“Nyma,” she said softly, not expecting a direct answer. The girl knew who she was now—or, at least, thought she was the Crowned Prince of Terra—but did little to address her. She didn’t mind. “I… I’ve already apologized, and I don’t expect forgiveness or anything of the sort. But I would like you to accept something from me, to help replace your house and such. Name any offer and… and it will be yours.”

It was enough to drag Nyma’s gaze away from her father, and stare at Pidge in shock. She couldn’t hold the girl’s gaze for long, though, and dropped it to the side. 

“Do you… have any relatives you could live with?” Pidge asked hesitantly, scratching at her arm. 

She recalled how Nyma scrubbed her arm over her eyes, and mumbled something about it. Pidge then went to the officers, who arranged to contact Nyma’s relatives and the like. It was a small town, and reasonable to assume they were all local. The officers recognized the names, and went off to deliver the news. Pidge stayed with the girl for as long as it took for her relatives to arrive past midday, sobbing and crying their condolences to Nyma as they hugged and kissed her.

Pidge watched from the sidelines, among the officers and their horses. Several hours earlier, a messenger pigeon was sent to the capital declaring that the Prince was in good hands, if a little worse for wear. She was instructed to stay still and avoid jostling the stitches they had to reapply. The town physician who did it was so nervous about stitching up the Prince that she dropped her needle twice and nearly gave Pidge a heart attack when her hands shook during the stitching process.

The girl was taken into her relative’s custody, and promised compensation from Pidge for the damage of the house, and her father’s funeral. However, as they were leaving with Nyma tucked under their arms, Rover stood by Pidge resolutely. The wife had shunned the dog earlier, and it wasn’t until one of their children started playing with Rover did she realize why. The kids were allergic to dogs. 

“We cannot take the pup with us,” she said to Nyma, gentle as she rubbed the girl’s arms. “We could give him to the neighbors—”

“They hate Rover,” Nyma replied, sniffing. “They nearly poisoned him once for chasing their chickens.”

“I could take him,” Pidge spoke up, trying to sit up off the ground and wincing under the effort. They stared down at her, and the wife’s entire face went beet red.

“We could never ask that of you, sir,” she said, shaking her head.

“Nonsense. It would give you reason to come to the capital and visit me,” Pidge suggested, nodding to Nyma who went pink under the request. She suddenly realized how that could come across, and quickly added, “I-If you happen to miss Rover at all, I mean. And visit Rover.”

“Yes, I would like that very much. If it isn’t too much trouble for you to take Rover, sir—he’s a bit older. He was assigned to my father when we lived in Terra and he was in the war,” Nyma explained. The information was both a surprise, and a reassuring bonus. It explained why Rover was so aggressive, and his dedication to Nyma’s father. War dogs were vicious things, though—they only had five at the Garrison, and they only listened to one voice, and that voice wasn’t among a single cadet.

“I would love to have him,” Pidge confessed, and reached over to scratch Rover’s back. His fur was still stained red around his mouth and chest, no matter how many times he rolled around in the riverbank.

So, when she said her goodbyes to Nyma and her relatives, Pidge was left with Rover and the task of transportation back to the capital. It would certainly be an uncomfortable, and painful ride.

  


  


It took a day to return to the capital—the only stop being to swap horses and drivers. Normally, they would have stopped for the night, but with the rush to return, Pidge didn’t want to wait a second. Rover was in and out of the carriage the entire time, eager to explore and to stare out the windows as they rode along. She stared at him through most of the journey, and wondered if Rover would be as good a pup in the capital as he was out in the countryside. 

The stitches were loose and even though the wound was healing, every lost stitch was a setback. So, when they finally arrived at the castle, they rushed her to the infirmary doors where she could be properly stitched up.

After the doctor left and the nurse had Pidge properly settled in bed with a meal on a tray, Pidge stared at the food wondering how she could stomach it. She barely even nibbled on the food given to her by the officer that accompanied her to the castle. Her stomach ached and she thought it was just from the wax burn, but after a while of studying the food remorsefully, she picked up a fork and munched on it.

It was pitiful trying to eat when she was on the brink of tears and she hardly knew why. The nurse let her keep Rover in the room—the pup kept her legs warm and hoping for a snack on her plate. She was back at the castle. She was as safe as she could be at a time like this. And yet, she couldn’t seem to rid herself of the lump that grew in her throat as she swallowed down the remains of a carrot. 

Perhaps it was because she couldn’t stop feeling guilty, and wondering what would have happened to her had she not attacked the damn witch and her guards. Would they have brought her to Zarkon? Would she have reunited with Matthew? Would she be put in with her father? 

As she was finishing up her meal, the nurse came in to check her bandages and give her pain medication in the form of a disgustingly black liquid. She tipped her head back and downed it all in one go, barely giving herself a chance to taste it before a voice spoke up—

“You must do shots regularly.” 

Pidge’s eyes flew open, and she instantly looked to the door where Lance stood in all his insolent glory. His cheeky grin turned to that of genuine happiness, the sort by which Pidge came to appreciate from him. He was always so genuine, even when it came to inappropriate comments.

She laughed, reaching over and holding Rover back from attacking. The pup tended to test his growling capabilities until Pidge tapped on his muzzle to stop him. She figured if she didn’t hold him back, Rover would take it as the cue to attack. The laugh, though, she was unable to help herself to, no matter how much it hurt to do so. “Come here,” she demanded, now reaching out both arms for Lance. 

He laughed and walked forward, passing the nurse on her way out. “Hunk’s here too. He was worried sick about you.”

“Literally sick. I think I threw up twice just out of anxiety,” Hunk’s said, emerging from behind the door and holding it open for the nurse. Once inside, Hunk shut the door and went to join in for the group hug Pidge instantly retracted from. 

“No excessive hugging,” she said, pushing Lance back by the chest. “I’m fine, but I don’t want you rupturing my stitches for the fifth time in the past two days.”

Hunk leaned over the bed and reached his hand under Rover’s nose. The pup sniffed him, and let Hunk scratch his chest. “I heard you were a little out of commission but I didn’t think _stitches_ were in order,” he confessed. “Where is it? Are you in pain? Should I get Shay to sneak you some of the hardcore drugs?”

Pidge giggled, holding her side as if a simple laugh would eject the stitches across the room. “No, I’m fine. Someone turned me into a kebab earlier—see?” She hiked up her patient-shirt and showed them the stitches. Given the amount of times she had a needle stuck through her, the skin was still irritated and pimply-looking from all the absurd times she had stitches put in.

Lance instantly put his hands over his eyes and moaned for her to put the shirt back down; he didn’t want to see it. Hunk, though, was more fascinated than she thought he’d be. It seemed his fascination with technology didn’t stop at mechanics—medicine was just as interesting to him.

He pointed to the irritated red spot on her stomach. “That looks like another burn.”

“Hot wax.”

“You are just going to be full of marks aren’t you? You’ll be like a… a—”

“A coded diary? I know. See, this one is from the time I was ambushed in my bed chamber, this one is from the Galra Steel, this bruise here is from being backhanded by a Galra soldier…” Pidge continued, smirking when she had to elaborate on the backhanding incident back when she escaped the sorceress. Her cheek was all yellow and blue from that incident.

It sparked the entire tale of Pidge’s escapade, from the time she broke out of the haze and knocked the witch unconscious, to obtaining Rover from the girl Nyma. Pidge was remorseful throughout the extent of Nyma’s father’s passing, and explained that the girl was living with her relatives now, without Rover, and without the home she had.

“I promised to give her enough to rebuild the house if she wanted, and replace all of their belongings. It was a cute little cabin—homey and the perfect size for them. I wonder if they built it themselves, so they wouldn’t have to pay for the labor when the wood siding is expensive enough,” Pidge explained, rubbing her hands over her face, careful to not put pressure on her bruise. 

“You shouldn’t be taking money out of Prince Matthew’s savings, though,” Lance told her, taking a seat beside her on a chair.

“He would understand—besides, I could pay him back, maybe, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s become of my _own_ savings. Would they have merged it with my father’s?”

“Your allowance wasn’t much—I don’t know if it would have been enough to pay for an entirely new home, labor, and the furnishings. Your parents provided for you, mostly, from their own accounts,” Lance explained. “After your mother passed, though, her share was given to you—and that should be enough.”

“Isn’t royalty rich, though?” Hunk asked curiously from the other side of the bed, his arms still around Rover. “You know, you don’t have to worry about money is all I’m saying.”

“The family is, that doesn’t necessarily mean we are individually,” Pidge explained. “I was given a monthly allowance once I started schooling, but my father was in charge of our savings, and everything we inherited from our predecessors and ancestors. They essentially shut us out from it when he went missing—it isn’t the same as Terra’s treasury, Hunk, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

“Your father was keen on sharing his fortune with the Terran treasury, though,” Lance interrupted. “He gave hundreds upon thousands of donations to it and the Garrison—that’s namely what’s funded the artillery in the war. Being the Queen, your mother tried letting them grant her full authority over your father’s inheritance after he was taken.”

Pidge was fully aware of this, since she’d been around at the time her mother fought with the bank and the treasurer in charge of King Samuel’s fortune. Evidently, there had been an agreement between them and her father to lock down his savings should he be absent. It would only be relinquished to his heir once he passed away. 

It’s what made all of Terra certain that the King was still alive, because of the enchantment that secured his fortune to his own life.

“So how much is in your account—if it’s still active?” Hunk asked.

“It isn’t,” Lance said, placing his head in his hands. “It was all put into Prince Matthew’s saving because transactions with the King’s is out of question with the current rules in place. Katherine was the heir to the Queen’s fortune, but if Katherine were to die, everything from her fortune would be put into the Prince’s accounts. That includes any inheritance she might have been given.”

“Great. So everyone thinks Pidge is Matthew, so it shouldn’t be a problem getting the money,” Hunk said. “And what’s with you saying she shouldn’t do it? If it’s to help someone she’s wronged?”

Lance gave an annoyed sigh, and Pidge realized why after a moment of thought. She groaned as well. “They can’t just let anyone with a letter access the Prince’s accounts. I’d have to go in person, and even then they have sorcerers who are capable of identity detection charms. Not only would I not be able to get the money, but the word would get out that I’m not the Prince,” Pidge explained, throwing her hands onto her face. “So I essentially gave this girl _hope of a better life_ and I can’t even do that for her.”

All three of them fell silent, except for Rover’s panting at the end of the bed. Hunk now had his forearms resting on the bed, thinking. Pidge laid her head back against the pillows and tried to come up with something better. Asking _Keith_ for money was just out of the question—of course he _had_ the funds, but she couldn’t expect him to clean up her mess. Besides, they were just friends, and not even as close as Allura or Hunk or Coran. He’d probably give them the funds in a heartbeat—but then again, she didn’t even _know him that well_. At least, to assume such things.

Finally, Hunk let out a huff of air and said, “Would they retract the funds from the Prince’s account if they knew you were Katherine?” 

“Hunk, no…” Pidge groaned. “We aren’t going to—”

“Well, what do you want to do, Pidge? Go on being Matthew for the rest of your life?” Lance interrupted, and she recoiled with a frown. “I agree with Hunk that if you really wanted to help this girl out, you’ll need to get back your inheritance. We could keep it quiet for a while, but when the note reaches this girl, Nyma, that Princess Katherine’s given her enough dough to set her up for life, do you think she’s going to keep it quiet?”

“I don’t… I don’t know,” she confessed, flushing under the thought of Nyma knowing that the deceased Princess of Terra shoved her out of her own house to fetch the authorities. That the Princess of Terra, the one who committed suicide, took custody of Nyma’s dog… As if _that_ wasn’t strange enough. 

“We can keep the treasury quiet,” Lance told her, resting a hand over her arm. She stared down at it, her heart stopping. “We’ll send one of their people over from Terra so you don’t even have to go to the bank yourself. It will be fine, Pidge.”

“O-Okay,” she stammered her affirmation. Lance patted her on the arm, and rose to inform Coran and the King. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know for certain that this book will be 32 chapters--that's just my guess. But it's looking to be a bit longer than that...


	22. Fighting Chance

Lance was, without a doubt, beside himself when the news arrived that Pidge was safe. He knew the pain of missing someone he cared about, and Pidge suddenly sprang to his list when he found out she was gone. He felt miserably defeated during that time, wondering just how terrible her sentence would be in the Galra Empire. He recalled moaning his worries aloud to Keith, who would constantly reply back with, “It takes a week of non-stop travel time to get to the Galran capital city.” “They can’t have made it past the Barrier.” “They’ll find Pidge before they even cross the border.” “They’ll find her.” “They’ll find her.” “ _They’ll find her_.”

Lance had been too depressed to even give Keith sad handjobs, he admitted as much to Hunk when he moped through his guard’s room, stressed and pacing. Hunk didn’t appreciated Lance’s pitiful tangents.

But with Pidge back, another worry was added to his list: How could he prevent the information of Princess Katherine’s safety from causing an uproar? Telling the treasury, and then a farmer’s daughter, was a sure way to start the rumors that the Prince was still in Galran hands. He hated the idea of people directing their hatred at her, even though he was guilty of this offense. He regretted ever feeling offended by her secrecy—she did what she had to do to survive, as she did in the Garrison. 

Pidge had been through more than Lance could imagine, and now she’d nearly been turned into an _hors d'oeuvres_ and stitched up like a stuffed animal, and without the one friend who came here with her. Shiro would have a hernia if he found out about Pidge’s condition, bedridden and chugging painkillers like shots at a college party.

 _Oh no_.

Lance didn’t even want to think about Shiro’s response to this. Now was _not the time_.

He’d been so deep in thought that he barely even noticed he was walking into Keith’s office. He became aware of Keith standing at his desk talking with Coran, but they both ceased conversation to look at Lance. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Coran commented, quirking an eyebrow up at them.

Hunk took a seat at the couch with a sigh, leaving the talking to Lance. He pursed his lips, rubbing his hand under his chin as he thought of how to phrase this… 

“How’s Pidge?” Keith asked.

“Uh… they failed to mention that she was stabbed? And was nearly burned to a crisp in a house fire?” Lance said, feeling and sounding confused by the entire affair. Coran muttered something under his breath, and Keith just stared. 

“She’s all right though, isn’t she?” he asked. 

“Well… more or less. We talked with her for a while,” he explained, coming to stand at Coran’s side to lean up against the desk. “She plans on paying for the damage of the house and everything that was in it because only two people lived there—a father and her daughter—and the father was killed so it’s just the girl now. Pidge feels responsible for the entire matter and I told her I’d organize a treasurer to come up from Terra to access her brother’s account—”

“Wait—you do realize that…” Coran started, gesturing with his hands before retracting them, finding the answer in the expression Lance exchanged. He curled his fingers around his mustache and said, “Oh dear.”

“We’re getting back her inheritance to pay for the damage, which will ultimately lead to the outbreak of the Princess’s return, and how her demise was a fabrication,” Lance continued. “Pidge is okay with it so long as the money gets to this girl, Nyma.”

“Is she trustworthy? This girl Nyma?” Coran asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“I imagine so—she’s just a farmer’s daughter,” Lance said with a shrug. “But I’m mostly worried about how the castle staff will respond, since she’s in direct contact with them.”

“They’ll get over it,” Keith muttered gruffly, a hand positioned over his mouth. “If I tell them to treat the Princess as they normally would, they will. Besides, she’s made a mark on them as the Prince—the fact that she’s the Princess shouldn’t make a difference to them. She’s still the same person.”

“And they’re used to women dressing in trousers and blouses—since Allura does it every now and again,” Coran explained. “Pidge won’t have to change a thing just to make the people like her.”

“ _Like_ her?” Lance repeated, exasperated. “As if betrayal will make the masses like her!”

Lance’s outburst sent them into silence again, and at last it was broken by Hunk. “It wouldn’t be betrayal if they learned she was behind the weapons that will win us the war,” Hunk said, drawing Lance’s attention to him. The man was leaning forward on the couch now, observing them all. “We don’t have to say, necessarily, what the weapon is—just that the Princess invented it while she was undercover as Prince Matthew.”

“As if they’ll believe she purposefully committed suicide just to become a gunsmith and engineer,” Keith scoffed. 

“No, but Hunk has a point,” Coran interrupted, snapping his fingers. “Pidge’s name _will_ be put under as the inventor of firearms, and if the people know this, then they’ll see her as an asset, not a runaway princess.”

“Though, there will always be people who oppose firearms,” Keith commented. “There are people who don’t believe in the use of swords, let alone handheld explosives.”

“We’ll jump that hurtle when we get there,” Lance said. “So it’s settled then? If so, I’ll contact Terra’s treasury today and have word back within the next several days.” He looked around at his company, and the concern showing on most of their faces. He hated to admit it, but he was nervous, too. 

_Pidge will be fine. She will be_ , Lance thought as the rest of the group gave their consent.

  


  


Pidge Gunderson felt like she had a thing or two to say to Takashi Shirogane, and yet, the man was still locked away. She was also conflicted about not wanting to see him, for the sake of her own sanity and his. She still didn’t feel like she wanted to be copiously apologized to, when she wasn’t feeling exactly worthy of apologies just yet. And she couldn’t give him her forgiveness—that was out of the question—so she’d feel guilty just going there to talk and not ease his worries. 

But after several near-death experiences, she didn’t want to leave things with Shiro as they were. He deserved a life better than this, which included her forgiveness, friendship, and confidence. 

She learned where the private solitary cells were, and she unsuccessfully tried to keep Rover in a room by himself for more than twenty minutes. She tested the pup several times, but it seemed that he became wrecked with anxiety when a familiar face wasn’t around—he made a mess of Shiro’s rug where she kept him. 

So, when Pidge made her rounds to the keep, she brought Rover. They stood outside the entrance for several minutes before leaving. She did this approximately three times, each time extending her visitation by another ten minutes. She wasn’t sure how long it took her to decide to actually _enter_ the private cell corridor, but Lance calculated five days. During those five days, she recovered in the infirmary, and returned to her usual bedchamber, the one with the conjoined room, and the green tapestries and curtains. It seemed awfully lonesome without Shiro there to read to her and such.

She missed him.

The thought crossed her mind as she watched the leaves of the trees break away from the branches one chilled afternoon. She had a heavier cloak on, one that would protect her from the wind. Walking stressed her stitches that would be removed soon, so she took to spending long days on the grass with Rover. Hunk would come by and deposit fictional books in her lap after discovering her knew love of them.

“Shay says you should be able to return to the workshop soon,” Hunk told her. “At least, from what she heard the doctor say. You won’t be able to _work_ necessarily, but you’ll be able to tamper around.”

“Fun.”

“I finished the parts for our third model, and put together a few others of the second model. You could put them together for me.”

“Okay.”

Hunk was standing over her, and seemed to want to say something else, but came to the conclusion that all of Pidge’s responses would be blunt. With a sigh, he sat beside her, and tugged his cloak around his shoulders so it covered his legs. 

They stared at Rover for a while, who barely moved from his spot on the ground. The pup was keen on staring and sniffing the air, and would do that for as long as Pidge stayed in the grass. Eventually, though, Hunk asked, “Are you all right, Pidge?”

She glanced at him as he furrowed his brows and watched her. “I’m fine. Why?”

“You don’t seem like yourself. Didn’t you hear? I finished the parts of the third model.”

“Fantastic,” she sighed, settling back to staring up at the tree limbs. “I’m sorry. There’s just a lot on my mind. I’d like to see Shiro, but I don’t at the same time.”

“Well, I can’t exactly say he won’t bite, and that there’s no need to be scared of him, that’s for sure,” Hunk snorted, smiling nervously down at Pidge. She heaved a great sigh and reached a hand over to him. He took it. “I’ll come with you if it will make you feel better.”

“No. I feel like this is a one-on-one thing. Sorry to exclude you. Have you seen him at all?”

Hunk thought for a moment before shaking his head. “Coran told me not to, but I did debate bringing him a loaf of that spicy bread. It’s quite good—his favorite last I heard. I snuck one of the guards the loaf, but who’s to say the guard didn’t eat it before it got to Shiro?” 

They fell silent for a moment, and a melancholy air settled on them and expelled the stress from Pidge’s chest. She gave Hunk’s hand a squeeze before asking him for help standing up. He took her under the arms and heaved her to her feet—she didn’t even have to move a muscle. Once steady on her feet, she declared that he would find her by Shiro’s cell. “Where will you go?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I might stop by my father’s shop,” he answered, releasing her. “Good luck.”

“Thank you. You too.”

They parted ways, and Pidge and Rover slowly meandered down several flights of stairs and to the separate structure that remained beneath the castle. It was older, just as Pidge had learned from Hunk and Lance’s tours. It was as if the history of the castle was positioned in layers, and the farther down one went, the older the bricks seemed to get. 

There were guards making rounds through the corridors, and they recognized her from the other times she spent staring at the private cell door. She waved to them in passing, and approached the door where she inhaled deeply, and stepped through.

The corridor stretched onwards, with cell doors on either side at wide increments—hardly near one another. They all seemed to be empty, except for the one nearest the center of the hall. The walls were solid stone, and the doors metal, with a singular square no larger than the size of Pidge’s head to peer into. It was higher than she anticipated, and wished she’d brought a stool.

She stepped up close to the door and peeked her head up. The room hardly looked inhabited—there wasn’t much other than a bed, a sink, toilet, and a blanket. There was a window slighter larger than the one she peered through, but it was set back far, and barred off on the opposite wall. 

For a minute she couldn’t find Shiro, and then discovered his feet coming into view from the side. She shifted and saw him lying, eyes closed, on the ground with his arms over his stomach and legs straight up at a ninety-degree angle against the wall. At the sound of her movement, one of his eyes peeked open.

“Shiro,” she said, and instantly he dropped his legs and jumped to his feet. The action was so swift, and probably didn’t take a single thought to perform. 

“Pidge,” he said. She didn’t expect him to sound so strained and hoarse. He nearly took a step towards her, and thought better of it. “How—How are you?”

“Fine.” She was standing on the tips of her toes. “Can you stand over here so I don’t have to reach up to see through the window?”

She stepped back as he came to peer through the window, a hand clasping the bars. “You… are better then? Coran said you were—”

“Kidnapped, yes,” she confessed, scratching the back of her head. “It was… crazy, to say the least. I’m better now, though. I get my stitches out soon—no, no, it’s nothing. Just a minor scratch,” she reassured him quickly, shaking her head. She felt all the heat swell to her face, and wasn’t quite sure why. “I just, um… wanted to talk to you.”

She couldn’t look him in the eye as she said it, and it wasn’t until she actually did that she realized it was because she feared to find his gaze glossed over in white and purple like before. That wasn’t the case today. His eyes were as dark as usual, like specks of coal against the whites of his eyes. They were hooded by blueish bags, and the lack of sleep was prevalent there, and the shadow of stable across his chin.

He seemed to notice the bruises on her face as well. “What happened to your cheek?” he asked.

“Nothing really. It’s almost gone, I’m surprised you noticed it,” she confessed, prodding at it herself. It was still tender, even if it wasn’t entirely visible. 

They quieted, and listened to the wind whistling through the window in his cell. Eventually, though, he released a distressed sigh, and a pitiful expression took over. “Pidge, I’m so, _so_ sorry, about everything. I swear I never knew—and if I had I wouldn’t have gone _near you_ after I became conscious in the war. I—I would have listened to you, and stayed away. I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have insisted on coming with you. You were right—you were safer without me.”

“I never said that,” she whispered. “And it’s not your fault. It isn’t. It’s too late to regret what you did—to me or to Matthew.”

Shiro let out a huff of air, and it turned into a strangled sound on the verge of a sob. His head fell forward onto the hand that clung to the bars, and he gasped for air. “I can’t—I don’t know how to live with this. I-I can’t believe I ever—I’m so sorry Pidge, I’m so sorry for what I’ve done. There’s nothing I can do to—”

“Stop it,” she hissed. “You can stop apologizing. I don’t need it right now.”

“But I _hurt him_ and I can’t stop thinking about it—I can’t stop…” he gasped, wrenching his eyes shut and slamming a fist against the door. After the echo of the hit dissipated, he released a shuddered breath and said, voice barely above a whisper, “I have this terrible feeling that… that all of my thoughts and feelings become backwards when I—I turn into _that_. And I’m prone to confusing things such as how I care for Matthew as a fellow guard and subordinate.”

Pidge remained quiet as he stopped. He blinked frantically, rushing away the tears that gathered on his lower eyelashes. “But… when you broke me out of that state when we were talking, I… I had this weird feeling that you suddenly became… I don’t know, it’s hard to describe.”

“Would you have attacked me if you’d known I was actually Katherine, when you were in that state?” Pidge asked, eyebrows knitting together.

Shiro shook his head, a state of confusion coming over him. “I… don’t think so. Before I completely came out of my delirium, I felt like I’d disappointed you, and that… we were related somehow?”

“Like, a connection of some sort?”

“No—like we were related. Brotherly affection? It doesn’t fit right, but that’s the best I can come up with. I felt like I was obligated to avoid harming you, and prevent others from doing the same. I can safely say I wouldn’t have hurt you at that point, quite the opposite, actually.” He hesitated before saying, “I just… wish I could say I understood it.”

“Likewise,” she confessed softly. “I wonder how your feelings towards me could have reversed positively, while Matthew’s became negative.”

“I don’t know. I think it happens at random when my mind scrambles,” he said. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.”

“And… do you know what’s become of Matthew? Now that you aren’t there to help him?” she asked, her concern on the matter showing in the nervous peak of her voice.

“I do not, sorry,” he confessed, shaking his head again. “But I’ve pieced together his timeline rather nicely. He’d been in a situation of higher standing among the prisoners, and was at one point brought before Zarkon—I can’t say for certain King Samuel was there, everything about him seems to have been wiped from my memories. Sometimes there’s just… this empty spot in my thoughts, and I think they include your father in them. If that’s the case, then King Samuel was also brought before Zarkon during the time before I was Champion. They were separated, and Matthew was forced into slavery under Zarkon’s Commander Sendak. I’m under the impression that your family wronged Sendak one way or another, and this was a form of vengeance. 

“At that point I’d been… under intense training among other slaves and forced to fight for some time. You recall gladiatorial rings, don’t you?” he asked Pidge, who nodded.

“Yes. They were outlawed nearly a century ago.”

“Precisely. The Galra use gladiatorial arenas for entertainment to distract from the war. They throw slaves in with biologically-altered beasts, and every now and then they toss in the Champion to fight dramatic battles against animals and such. The offer to become Champion was forced on me after a dozen or so undefeated wins in the ring, and I could have fought it, but I didn’t because I’d heard rumors about perks Champions receive. I’d be given a servant no higher than slave rank, a place to stay outside of a cell, and the potential to serve in the war as a commander or general depending on my experience and training.

“I won’t give you the details of the transition into Champion-hood. But following it, I still had the notion of taking Matthew from Sendak. When I had him in my custody, I began training him for the gladiatorial arena. He became a… _glorified slave_ given the fact that he wasn’t contained in a cell or chained. The gladiators _loathed_ him because of it, and when gladiators were pitted against one another, they’d attempt to kill him every chance they had. Matthew was—and is—a better fighter than the lot of them, and last I recall, he was just five wins away from being offered the position of Champion.

“For the most part, Matthew was solely focused on survival. I don’t think… he had any hope of returning home, and just submitted to the Galra and became one of them after a while,” Shiro confessed, frowning intensely as Pidge stared at him, eyes drawn wide. “Matthew did talk about you, though. And when word reached Zarkon that you committed suicide, he was devastated.”

“Matthew knows about that?” Pidge gasped, horrified as she threw her hands over her mouth. “Oh God—I never knew they’d tell him, or that they’d even _care_ to tell him.”

“I don’t know—They would only have told him for the purpose of destroying his spirit. He obsessed over the thought of you after that, but I never thought anything of it. I—I always told him he was wasting his time thinking about you when I should have been comforting him,” Shiro said.

Neither of them spoke for a while, until Pidge finally pressed her back against the opposite wall and slid down it, careful to avoid agitating her stitches. Rover sat beside her then, his back legs flopped to the side. Shiro had his head pressed against the bars, staring down at the floor. “What does it take to become Champion?” she asked him finally.

“I shouldn’t tell you—”

“I need to know. I know it involves removing something from the victim but—”

“Well, yes, but it’s more complicated than that,” Shiro said, walking away from the window and out of view. She didn’t get up to see where he went, because after a moment he returned. “The fault of becoming a Champion is that you allow those monsters that follow Zarkon to play around with your head. It starts by scrambling all of your memories, but even after that with a snap of their fingers you do as they say without question. It’s what causes the battles with the Champions to be so gruesome, because they’re essentially playing cat and mouse, the Champion being the cat and the victim being the mouse.”

“And you were the mouse at one point? You said your predecessor had a heart of Steel.”

Shiro paused, his expression unreadable. “Yes, she did,” he answered at last. “But the battle with the Champion isn’t just wait for them to tear off a limb and get it over with. They’re given the ability to kill you if they want—or if Zarkon wants. They go until you fall unconscious, and they’re capable of just letting you bleed out and die. It’s why potential Champions and hand-picked, and revived by those sorceress _beasts_.”

“You were hand-picked then?”

“Yes. Not all slaves who win dozens of battles become Champions. I was already on Zarkon’s radar, so when I won my fifteenth battle or so, he strongly suggested I battle the Champion and become one.

“The Champion can take as many limbs as they want, which increases the chance of death for the victim. They can do whatever they want with the victim once they’re in the ring, with any weapon they desire. The victim is given one dull sword and that’s it. The arena has seven columns, and some Champions were known for lifting them and tossing them. The one I went against had that ability, because she had a heart of Steel and muscle enhancements from Zarkon’s monsters.”

“God, I couldn’t imagine,” Pidge muttered, hands over her mouth. “How did you survive _days_ in the arena?”

Shiro had grown pale, and shook his head. “I don’t know. They go in one hour bursts, two hour break periods. Most of the time I would get out of the ring, and be in too much agony to eat. They had these… healers who would do rush-jobs to fix open wounds, but most of the time that just made it more painful. And when I got up after the two hours were done, I’d be too sore to fight back again. I stabbed her once in the beginning—in her thigh. The wound healed in four hours.”

“Is that who Matthew will go against? Since you aren’t there?” Pidge asked, and the idea just seemed to make his complexion even more ghastly.

“I don’t want to think about it,” he confessed, hoarse as he turned away from the door. This time, he didn’t come back to it. When she stood back up and went to the window, she found him laying on his cot, facing the wall.


	23. Modified Weaponry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 80k words? Who woulda thunk that I'd write a novella-sized fanfiction at ANY POINT in my lifetime. I have, like, 30 more ideas for fanfics now. This is bound to become my downfall.

A month later, mass production of the first, second, and third model guns began. An abandoned warehouse in the northern district was purchased, and turned into a factory. It took yet another month to get the machinery up and running, and the people trained and put to work. However, before even the first duplicate was made, Lance received word from the treasury, and a person was sent for and enroute to Altea. This was before mass production started, and before the world knew of Princess Katherine’s existence. 

The day the treasurer and Terran sorcerer arrived, Pidge made the necessary arrangements to make herself suitable, and even had her hair trimmed. Lance offered to lend her one of his better suits, but alas, he was too tall and lanky for Pidge’s small, nimble frame. She thanked him for it, though.

They met in one of the sitting rooms, with the King, Coran, Lance, and Hunk. Pidge was so nervous about the outcome that she found herself sweating even when the temperature was cooling. As it turned out, the sorcerer was rather nice, and gave her a reassuring smile as he laid his entire palm over her forehead, his fingers resting in her trimmed hair. She was glad she had it washed and readied for this day.

The treasurer was talking with Lance when the sorcerer’s smile vanished, and a look of confusion came across his features. Pidge was already nervous to begin with, and wasn’t sure what their reaction would be to her true identity.

“We… have a slight concern,” he commented to the treasurer, who then came over in a hurry.

“What is it? Is this not the Prince?” he demanded. The sorcerer’s hand retracted for a moment and he shook his head, putting his palm back

“I don’t recognize this person. Your name is… Pidge Gunderson? Isn’t it?” the sorcerer said aloud, and instantly her eyes widened, and Lance let out an inhuman sound.

Pidge’s forehead was most likely sweating now.

“No, no—you must have something wrong,” the treasurer argued with the sorcerer.

“Check if there’s another name,” Pidge demanded when the sorcerer started to step away. She grabbed his hand and put it back on her forehead. “Look for another name.”

This time, under her command, he hesitantly shut his eyes and the focus creased his forehead. The pressure of his hand started to burn as he stammered, “I-I only see—wait—how can there be two names?”

At this point, the treasurer turned on Lance and shouted, “We came here for the Prince! Who is this—this—”

“ _Girl_? Princess Katherine?” the sorcerer cried out, pulling back his hand as if it stung him. He looked utterly traumatized. “I’m sorry sir—there must be something wrong with my sorcery. It’s never done this before I swear—”

Pidge felt faint. _Pidge Gunderson? As the first name to pop up?_ She’d been called Princess Katherine up until three years ago. She guessed her identity crises had been more severe than originally suspected. 

“No, your sorcery is fine, sir,” the King said, shaking his head. “We know who she is—she is not the Prince you came for.”

“Pardon me, your Majesty, but are you out of your mind?” the treasurer hissed, and instantly the sorcerer had his hands over his mouth. “What makes you think—” the treasurer was looking between the King and Pidge in utter bafflement. Then, he snapped his fingers at the sorcerer and ordered him to try again.

The sorcerer fiddled around with her head until his boss was sufficiently convinced that Pidge was both the Princess, and the alias she claimed. The treasurer was so out of sorts that the King had a bottle of brandy brought in, just to ease the man’s worries. He drank it from the bottle before the servant could pour him a glass.

It took some time, but they arranged for Pidge’s funds to be extracted from the Prince’s savings. They ordered the transaction of several thousand silver to be transferred to Nyma, which was already mentioned in the initial letter Lance sent. The sorcerer kept staring at Pidge strangely, and she assumed he’d fiddled around enough to catch a thing or two from her life in the Garrison. She knew mind reading was a power some sorcerers had, which was what made them so useful to the bank.

After they disbanded and the treasurer went on his way to the guest quarters, Pidge was stopped by the same sorcerer that tended to stare at her. She was with Lance and Hunk when the sorcerer bowed to them and asked to speak with her, privately.

She took him through the halls away from Lance and Hunk, walking at an even pace as he asked, “You were injured, Princess?”

“Please, don’t call me that,” she said, grimacing. “There’s a reason you saw Pidge Gunderson before Princess Katherine Holt.”

His face flamed red as he said, “Right, of course.”

“And yes I was injured. I’m better now.”

“And—the assassin? I heard of it back in Terra but I didn’t believe it.”

“Also true.”

“You were in the Garrison, m’lady?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“All right, miss.”

“Just… stop with the tags, please.”

“All right.”

Pidge sighed, rolling her eyes away from him. They were approaching a break in the hall, where the columns lined the outskirts of a small courtyard. She paused her walking as a servant passed them with a smile. She waved to them before turning back to the sorcerer, who was still watching her as if he was still prying around in her head. “I was in the Garrison. I was in the war. I have been here for the last several months. Anything else?”

“I—I apologize if I offended you, P-Pidge,” he stammered, looking down at his feet. “I would just… like to understand why you did it.”

She watched him carefully, wondering what he was referring to. After a moment, she came up with a conclusion: “I didn’t want to be a figurehead, and still don’t. I want to help Terra, and have been working on weaponry to assist in the war. Textbooks and newspaper fail to mention that I was a protégé as a child in the field of mathematics and sciences. In the Garrison I learned to favor physics.”

“Couldn’t you have done this in Terra?” he asked, seeming hesitant to say it. 

After a moment, she said, “No. I would have come here anyway, and not by my own free will. I shouldn’t be mentioning this to you, but it was rumored that I was to marry the Altean King. Suffice to say that marriage won’t be happening now that I plan on manufacturing weaponry.”

The sorcerer still hadn’t lifted his eyes, and she wondered why until realizing that he was staring at her legs, and the trousers that covered them. _Terra, so terribly traditional_ , she thought. “Ignore my pants,” she told him, and bid him farewell before hurrying off.

  


She did start manufacturing weaponry two and a half months from then. She and Hunk spent much of their time overseeing the work space, and even arranging their own office away from the fumes and noise. Though, the noise was hard to avoid. It felt like summer in the factory, even though winter was approaching. Many of the workers found the temperatures in the factory tolerable given the frigidness of the outdoors, but Pidge figured they’d regret saying that once summer returned.

The workers knew who Pidge was, and after a speech sparked by irritation from the public, she ordered, “If it’s too hard for you to say ‘Pidge’ or suddenly ‘Pidge’ has become some foreign language to you, then call me Miss Holt and nothing else.” They all called her Miss Holt from that point onwards, and after having Hunk spy on them for a bit, they came to the conclusion it was because her employees didn’t want to erase her history as royalty. 

If news about the Princess’ return spread slowly, the start of Pidge’s company definitely picked up the pace. The opening of the factory was in the newspapers with headlines reading “A ROYAL TERRAN INDUSTRY”. What was being manufactured, however, was under wraps, and disclosed and quoted by Pidge as, “modified weaponry for the troops”. They had guards around the factory shooing away the street kids and the curiosity of people passing by. Every last employee was handpicked and ordered to sign a contract that silenced all talk about the firearms. In fact, none of them knew what they were making was intended for gunpowder—but it didn’t take long for them to piece the parts together and understand what it was meant for in the war.

Pidge and Hunk’s office stood over the ground floor, and was positioned above the storage unit of crates upon crates of gun parts. There were checkers of grid-line windows around the four walls of the offices, and Lance, after seeing the place, went and bought curtains for the windows. “You know, for privacy. You never know what happens inside an office,” he told them, and Pidge didn’t want to know why he winked at them when he said it.

Pidge spent a lot of the time there, and by a lot, she meant the entire day. It’d be safe to assume that she spent up to twelve hours in the factory daily, and after spending so much time with Hunk, he began to assume she was avoiding the castle. Besides, the factory was just as well guarded as the castle itself. 

The finished products were stored in a conjoined section of the old warehouse. At first it seemed like enough room, but then the entire place was filled to the ceiling with crates. Their supply of the fourth model was still low, considering the plans were just finalized and the equipment for the parts just started functioning a week ago.

Pidge walked along them and skimmed her hands over the crates, and the stamp of the firearm series on the wooden panels. There were other details, such as where they would be shipped down the coast to Terra, what ports they’d land in, what training compounds would receive them. It was this sort of information that Hunk and Pidge required all employees to refrain from entering the storage unit. The two of them were the only ones allowed to stamp the names on the side of the crates, so as to avoid people knowing just where, exactly, these crates would end up.

She paused to run her fingers along the hand-size letters of the series title. It started with a spectacularly bold “V”, and tracked the length of a seven-letter word. _VOLTRON_.

When the firearms were just being produced and they were still teaching the workers, Hunk was considering the name they delayed for so long. They barely thought to name them other than _guns_ and _firearms_. But Hunk was reminded that swords were given names based on their styles and craftsmanship. Some even had the names engraved on the metal—those were far more expensive, however.

“I was thinking about using an old-fashioned dialect from Terra that was around two centuries ago,” he had explained to her. “There were slang terms that just sort of… transitioned into the phrases we use. Originally, mechanics and things associated with the machinery at the time were called—”

“Tron?” Pidge finished, quirking an eyebrow. “That’s rather old fashioned.”

“Yes, which is why we would merge it with something from this era, perhaps something to do with the invention of sorcery-based electricity. It’s only fair considering we have sorcerers working on the handles of the guns to make them fire-resistant,” Hunk explained, and Pidge nodded along with him. But _tron_? It was like suddenly retracting back to the times people talked backwards; “Be not afraid of thine own self; for thou cants comprehend the expanse of thine talents. Doubt not, fair knight…” 

Pidge felt on the verge of fainting at the thought of it. She loathed those sections in literature class. 

“We’ll use the unit of measurement for electricity—Volts,” Hunk said, breaking Pidge away from her internal monologue, for she was on the verge of a soliloquy.

“Volts-tron?”

“No, Voltron.”

“Yes, but you just subtracted the ’s’.”

“Does Volts-tron really sell? I’m sorry, Pidge, but I have to stop you there—we’re going with Voltron for the series title. For our second series, if you want, we could do something less medieval. But imagine the contrast between the New Age and the Old!” Hunk exclaimed, holding up the page with the word _Voltron_ written in his elegant, yet scratchy, handwriting. 

And so Pidge now saw the word Voltron stamped on every last crate being stored in the warehouse. When she returned to the main section of the factory, she found a familiar blue coattail disappearing up the steps to the office. She had her protection goggles secured over her eyes before she tore cheek across the ground floor, and hurried up to the observation deck where Lance disappeared through the office door.

She entered the room in time to find him talking in hushed tones to Hunk. The second she opened the door, though, they ceased all chatter. Slowly, she entered, and slowly, she shut the door behind her. “What’s this?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at Lance.

“Nothing.”

“Come on—spit it out.”

“I was just telling Hunk about something stupid Keith did today—nothing that concerns _you_ ,” Lance said, his attitude coming back.

“Or _me_ ,” Hunk complained, frowning at Lance. “I don’t want to hear about your… _sex problems_.”

“They aren’t _problems_ so much as they are _experiments_ gone _wrong_ —hey! Wait, don’t walk away from me!” Lance cried out as Hunk excused himself from his seat and made a beeline for the door. As Hunk disappeared, Lance dissolved into laughter, holding onto his stomach and shouting, “ _Priceless!_ Ha! I love tormenting you all—look at your face!”

“Stop it,” Pidge complained, placing her hands over her flaming cheeks. “I don’t like talking about sex.”

“I’ve noticed. I have half a mind to suspect you lack any form of sexual appetite,” Lance accused, and when she merely scowled at him, he pointed a finger and said, “You don’t deny it.”

“I’ve had no reason, nor time, for a sexual appetite,” Pidge argued. “Get out of my office—Ha! I can say that now that I actually have an office, and can escort you out of it. Get! Get!” 

“No reason!” Lance repeated, ignoring her as she grabbed him by the arm and started lugging him towards the door. “No reason! Pidge—for all the reasons! It’s the very same reason I must return to the castle at this moment.”

“ _Good_ , then perhaps Keith can help you with your _sexual appetite_ ,” Pidge grunted, shoving her shoulder against his back now and scooting him out the door. He laughed the entire way, mainly because Pidge was doing an excellent job of hauling him around like a great big teddybear. 

She shut the door behind him and laid her back against it with an annoyed sigh. It was a wonder she had such a friend—sex seemed like such a waste of time and effort that could be better spent here at the factory. Her beloved factory. It was and will be the child she might never have. And every last Voltron-brand firearm included a bit of her heart, as well as every other worker there. She hoped it would be enough to end the ruthless execution of her people in Terra. 

After a moment, Pidge shook herself free from her reveries, ignorant of the fact that just beyond the door, Lance high fived Hunk. Hunk said, “Nice save—I couldn’t have lied half as well as you.”

Lance laughed and replied back, “Ha! I know you couldn’t have, you massively honest oaf. Remember—tonight for dinner. Don’t forget Pidge.”

“Shouldn’t that task be assigned to someone else, don’t you think? You just admitted I’m a massively honest oaf.”

“You’ll survive.”

  


  


“This must be a festive dinner—I’ve never been down this hall,” Pidge confessed, glancing over the slightly medieval pillars in their wake. The corridor was nearly two stories high, and marked by glass ceilings and glimpses into the second story rooms and balconies. It was all rather… peculiar that she’d never been this way.

“We don’t normally use this part of the castle anymore—you can see why. It’s rather old fashioned,” Hunk confessed, running his hand across the knee of a statue holding up a pillar. Pidge nearly had a heart attack—he could have toppled the entire thing and sent them all to waste. 

“Then why’d Keith choose dinner _here?_ ” Pidge asked, raising an eyebrow at Hunk as he pursed his lips and looked elsewhere. If she knew any better, she’d think he was _nervous_. Of course, she’d known Hunk to be nervous on _many_ occasions—the man couldn’t help but worry. “Never mind that. How much farther?”

“Just through that door—yes, the one with the guards, _obviously_ ,” Hunk said, talking fast and letting out a laugh. “Of course, because Keith’s in there—he always has that _entourage of guards_.”

“Yes, _obviously_ ,” Pidge repeated with a laugh, striding ahead of him towards the guards. They reached out and grasped the handles. As they opened the doors, Pidge glanced back at Hunk and said, “I’ve never seen you so flustered, you—”

Anyone who stood outside the doors would have suspected an explosion went off. The abrupt shout was so incredibly loud, Pidge gave a start and nearly ducked for cover, but was promptly faced with the _many_ faces in the room. She stared at them all in shock, and as the eruption of surprise shouts continued to a rumble of laughter and the faint, distracting music in the background, she relaxed her tense shoulders, just a tad.

She hadn’t moved from her spot until she recognized the bright blue coat Lance was wearing. He was standing alongside Keith, who was laughing as Hunk nudged her past the threshold. The doors shut behind them.

“Wh-What’s this?” she stammered, approaching Lance and Keith after being enveloped by ecstatic hugs and handshakes from the guests. “Is… Is this for _me?_ ”

“Yes!” Lance cried out, throwing his arms up. “It’s your _birthday!_ Do I have to remind you of this?” 

Pidge was trying hard to process this. She swore her birthday was in five months… _it’s been five months_. She’d been away from Terra for five months and she barely even realized it. 

As her mind went on a rampage, wondering what could have made her lost track of time, Hunk arrived with a drink, and after taking a sip of it himself, deemed it safe for her. She accepted the glass and chugged it generously. 

“And how old are you? You remember that much, don’t you?” Keith laughed as she recovered from the kick of the alcohol. 

“F-Fifteen,” she answered weakly. “I’m fifteen.”

“Barely a sprout.”

“A lit’lun.”

“Wee lamb.”

“I’m _fifteen_ —practically an adult. Give me another drink,” Pidge demanded, holding out the empty glass for someone to take.

The party guests included much of the staff Pidge became acquainted with through the past several months, and people from Keith and Lance’s circle of friends. She realized quickly that it had become some sort of reunion for Lance, and she didn’t mind. She was amused to hear stories even _he_ didn’t share with her involving his university days. They were all lovely people, and she was surprised by the elaborate gowns and uniforms the guests wore. She felt slightly uncomfortable in her current state of affairs, but after voicing her concerns to Hunk, he put them to rest.

“You like fine, Pidge. That whole myth about people caring about what you wear? Not true. No one would notice if you had a stain on the front of your trousers,” Hunk said, and Pidge scoffed.

“Well, even if I did I’d wear a coat to cover it up. Besides, they… all know I’m the Princess, don’t they?” she said, though the question hardly needed answering. Of course they did. She just worried they’d think differently of her… Though how could they? She was still the same person she was before the news went out. In fact, she was even more successful with the Voltron factory.

Hunk shook his head at her foolishness, and she blushed under the unnecessary stress. “You’ve got nothing to fear, Pidge. We’re here for you— _I’m_ here. We did this for you because we care about you, and that includes your happiness,” Hunk said, and she thought she might cry.

She placed her hand over her cheek just to make sure it wasn’t damp. She had a goofy smile on her face as she leaned in towards him for a hug. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

As Hunk ran his hands up and down her back, he said, “It’s okay, it’s okay to be sad once in a while. But today you can… maybe _not_ be sad? And _not_ worry?”

She nodded her head against him. “Yeah, I could do that.”

“Good. Now are you hungry or should I start up the dancing? Because I’m good for either,” he said, pulling back from her to see her reaction. She laughed ridiculously and agreed to the dancing.

The ballroom was narrow, and lined on either side by those old fashioned pillars featuring nude statues holding up the top half of their structures. The band was tucked away in a nook by the pillars, and as she circled around one of them while Hunk arranged for the band to play an upbeat tune, she accepted the congrats and birthday wishes from strangers and fellow workers at the castle.

Soon, the music picked up, and the tune was something everyone seemed to recognize. All at once, the floor parted, and people chose their partners. Before she could blink, a hand swept her up from behind and guided her elbow towards the floor. She glanced to her left and found Lance grinning down at her. “Let me guess, Hunk called the first dance—beat him to it, didn’t I?”

“We didn’t exactly pl—whoa, that isn’t part of the dance,” Pidge laughed when he spun her quickly and dipped her. He laughed, propping her back up before parting to the opposite side of the divide. She took her place across from him and his smirking face, and made a point to sneer right back at him.

A chord was strung, and everyones feet moved in unison. They circled each other and parted ways, and back again with gentle touches of the hand, the shoulders, the arms. Pidge favored these dances, because while they were intimate, they were distant, and most of the time she found herself simply grazing past him, around him, barely touching. The steps were simple enough, weaving between people in and out again. The strangers around them were all amiable. 

Pidge found herself enjoying the evening very much.

Later on, after sufficiently wearing herself out from dancing, Keith called everyone to attention for a toast. He was standing up on a pedestal with five chairs, the center one intended for him at the table it accompanied. She found herself wondering who the fifth one was for, but realized quickly that Coran had made an appearance, and winked at her from across the room.

“I would like to call everyone’s attention to the star guest of the evening,” Keith started, holding his cup out to where Pidge was standing. The people around her made a slight circle so others could see her blush. Keith was smiling, and she half wondered if it looked so cheeky because of the wine. “I’ve known her by three names, and call her what you like but one of them is definitely _Peculiar_. Her life has not been the easiest, but by no means was it lonely because it brought her to us. She’s a mastermind and a scholar, and deserves to have her fifteenth year recognized. Happy birthday, to Katherine Holt, or as I prefer, Pidge Gunderson. Cheers.”

As an uproar of clinking glasses ensued, she heard Lance nearby say, slightly choked up, “So eloquent.” Pidge’s cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling so damn much, and from feeling so flush all the time. She was certain the alcohol had a part in that.

It came to her attention, as she became engulfed in hugs from her friends and workers, that she was, and would be, the youngest of the batch. Hunk’s bit of wisdom told her that she was still entitled to feeling this way—confused, out of sorts, sad at times, and in all honesty, she was a bit of a handful. But Pidge was only fifteen. There were bigger, greater things in her wake, and she was glad that for now, her only concern that night was strategizing how to eat the most food and drink the most wine that night without being perfectly and utterly incapacitated the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tender moment for our beloved pumpkin Pidge. Also, can we appreciate Lance's frankness? The kid has no filter. It's great. ALSO this chapter made me think about the ages of all the characters, ya know? Because Pidge is 14 in the show, and in this book Lance and Hunk would have to be in their early twenties (to give Lance time to go through school and such). So they'd be closer to Shiro's age in the show? And Keith would probably be 24-25 here. Shiro's probably on the verge of 30, but not quite... And Coran will always look like that weird uncle in the fam so I'm gonna average him at like 40 years old.
> 
> So APPROXIMATE AGES in this book:  
> Pidge 15  
> Hunk 22  
> Shiro 28  
> Lance 23  
> Keith 25  
> Allura 25  
> Coran 38
> 
> I'll hopefully post again within the next 2 or 3 days.


	24. Royal Advisor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starring Coran in all his ginger glory. (Well, not all of it. That'd be a bit revealing, wouldn't it?)

After much begging and tedious whining, Lance won Pidge a slumber party. The setting: Keith’s master suite; the company: Pidge, Hunk, Lance, and Keith; the reason: none at all. She never eat quite as much as they allowed her to that day, mainly because every time she stuffed herself she felt guilty for it. Habits at the Garrison didn’t fade that easily, which included the serving sizes everyone had, even being grown individuals training for war. 

Still, that didn’t stop Hunk from ordering a tray of a “surprise desert”. She quirked an eyebrow at him when he came back looking cheeky as ever. “What it is? I hope it’s not a tray assortment of brussel sprouts,” she said. 

“You’ll see when it arrives,” he said. “I helped make it myself, in preparation for this _auspicious_ occasion.”

“Brownnose,” Lance muttered from behind Pidge on the bed. Keith sat down just long enough to tweak his sides as a way of punishment. Lance squeaked and apologized for name-calling.

“I wish Allura were here,” Pidge confessed, glancing briefly over at Keith. He did the same to her at the mention of his best friend’s name, and promptly shrugged.

“She hasn’t had a slumber party with me since… well… hm,” Keith stopped to think, placing a hand over his mouth as he stepped towards his closet. “Come to think of it, it must have been after the last party we held in that ballroom—correction: _you_ held.” He pointed a finger at Lance, who scoffed and waved it off.

“Yes, which is why _I_ wasn’t in charge of this party,” he said. “I don’t know how to throw parties for underage children.”

“ _Children?_ ” Pidge gawked at him. “I’m sure I could _easily_ have graduated university by now had I not been royalty and then snuck into the Garrison.”

“Being a child isn’t determined by measure of knowledge, little one—it’s measured by _age_. And also placement in your family. You’re the youngest, ergo you will always be a child,” Lance declared. “But still—fifteen is still pretty childlike. You aren’t out of secondary school yet anyway.”

“Ah ah, you just said measure of knowledge isn’t taken into account,” Hunk argued.

“Don’t fight me, Hunk,” Lance said, jabbing a finger in the guard’s direction. “Or I _will_ torment you for the rest of the night. I’m excellent at freezing the soul with just a touch of my bare foot against your leg.”

“Ew—you’re supposed to wear socks to bed,” Hunk said.

“No way! In the Garrison, any kid who did that had extra-smelly feet,” Pidge argued.

“No—socks. Lance’s feet are the Touch of Death if they’re sock-less,” Keith said, waving a hand outside of his closet, a sock pinched between his fingers. When Lance made a noise of distress, he stepped out long enough to chuck them across the room and nail Lance in the chest with them. Pidge covered her eyes for the sake of maintaining her sanity when faced with Keith’s bare chest.

“I own up to that, but it doesn’t mean you have to bring it up—you’re my boyfriend, you’re supposed to ignore details like that!” Lance cried out.

“And do you ever wear socks when I complain about it? No, so shut your fucking mouth and put a pair of damn socks on,” Keith shouted from inside the closet. When he came out, he was wearing an average night shirt and trousers, fitted with nice striped socks that looked to be homemade. 

It was already late by the time they got into the room, and by the time the birthday treat arrived. It came encased in a lovely tray with a dome on top. Hunk removed the cap and the sight of peanut butter chocolate mouse rendered Pidge speechless.

“I didn’t know they gave out chocolate!” she cried, “Or peanut butter!”

“Well, every now and then—they make exceptions for you,” Hunk answered with a smile, passing her a cute bowl and then doing the same for Lance and Keith. There was enough for the four of them, and it tasted so incredibly delicious that Pidge almost wished tomorrow was her birthday as well. 

By the time they finished eating, talking, and laughing, Pidge was too exhausted to bother moving from her spot. She was curled up on one corner of the bed, a pillow tucked underneath her head and arm, with Hunk a foot or two above her on the other side. 

She was thankful Keith and Lance refrained from snuggling, but her instincts told her Lance was a snuggler at heart and couldn’t refrain from doing so in the middle of the night—regardless of who the victim was. Since he was laying next to her, she woke up in the subtle morning light to Lance dipping towards her, his arms tucked against her back and his head nearly pressed into her hair. She couldn’t imagine _ever_ having to spend the rest of her life waking up to hot, after-party breath moistening the skin on her neck. _Disgusting_.

She sneakily rolled away from him and propped up a tad. He _literally_ had half the bed to his bidding—why the hell did he have to cling to her back like that? Unbelievable. She couldn’t sleep then now that he had already soiled her sleeping mood. As Pidge moved to stand up, she realized she had a roaring headache that needed mending.

Rubbing her skull, she exited the room and wandered down Keith’s hallway. The guards nodded to her on her way out, and as she was heading down the stairwell, she bumped into the Lord General, who wished her a happy birthday. “I hope the celebration was to your liking,” he told her.

“It was, thank you,” she replied, smiling, though it turned out mostly as a wince.

Pidge continued through the corridors until at last discovering the kitchens. The chef was eager to see her, having helped out with the birthday treat. She doted on Pidge and had all of the staff exclaim their welcomes, but after seeing Pidge wince at the noise, instantly set to work for a protein-filled breakfast.

She poked and prodded at her breakfast until she didn’t feel quite as nauseous, and was eventually able to shovel spoonfuls of eggs into her mouth. As she was in the midst of dividing up an omelet, the chair next to her pulled away, and a familiar figure sat alongside her.

“Hello, Coran,” she said after swallowing down her food.

“Fifteen already, huh, Pidge?” he commented, leaning an elbow on the table with a sigh. “I remember those days—wandering around the castle like I owned the pace. Is it treating you well so far?”

“It is, thank you,” she said. 

“Yes, back in my time fifteen meant you were already starting work, either that or on your way to university. As you can see I chose the university route,” Coran said, curling his mustache over one finger. As he rambled on about his own fifteenth birthday party—how the man could remember was beyond her—she ate a bit more of her eggs. He twisted his hand around his bright red mustache, absently staring elsewhere in the room. 

Eventually she said, “What brings you here?”

“Oh, no reason. I just wanted to make sure you had a good time yesterday at the party—I was there for a brief time when the dancing was still going on,” he explained, waving a hand. “Are you off to the factory today, then? Taking a day off?”

“No,” she replied. “I didn’t know there was a party last night—I didn’t intend to sleep in as late as I did. I suppose I’ll have to skip the run today to meet with my distributors.”

“So that’s it then? You are sending your creation out into the world?” he asked, and the phrasing made Pidge recoil with a frown. She scowled at her plate, shoulders bunching. He noticed, as he always did. “A weapon of this magnitude is… difficult to detain. There certainly is no guarantee that the Galra will never get their hands on it, reproduce it, and use your own weapon against you.”

“I know,” she said, voice soft. “Which is why I won’t signal their departures until we have a solid game plan, and have the generals and commanders all in line to use it. We can’t let it sit around while the Galra plot to steal it. They most likely know by now that we have a weapon to combat their technology, but whether or not they know it’s capabilities…”

“You’ve tried so hard to keep it from the public,” Coran said, interrupting with a hand resting on her shoulder. “You’ve done all you can, Pidge, to protect our people. Sometimes you cannot help but trust strangers such as the generals and commanders you’ll be conversing with. They’re loyal to Altea—or as loyal as one can assume given their position.”

“I know. That’s what worries me,” she confessed, dropping her gaze. “Because… well, Shiro had the rank of a commander for the Galra, and returned to our side.”

“We don’t know that,” Coran countered. “He’s fallen under their influence more than once—we can’t be certain that what you know of Shiro is true anymore. At this point, he could be more Champion than Shiro.”

Pidge ached to think about it, and curved her shoulders forward to avoid letting Coran see how much the comment wounded her. The Shiro she talked to in the keep was still down there, mourning and depressed. She wished that there was some way she could… _No, I shouldn’t regret summoning the Champion. We know more than we did before because of it_ —if only summoning the Champion wouldn’t destroy Shiro in the process.

“I only say this because I know you can handle it,” Coran finally said, slowly, watching her as he did so. “It’s been a traumatic experience for you, and I wouldn’t put this on you if I knew you couldn’t handle the truth.”

“I know.”

When she didn’t elaborate, Coran squeezed her shoulder—it was the one the Champion burned, and now it just seemed crushed and defeated. “The truth is that we can never fully trust Shiro with the way things are now. And we can’t even begin to contemplate how to separate Shiro from his Champion counterpart—not when he knows so much about the Galra. Severing the bond would sacrifice one or the other, and it could very well be a fifty-fifty chance that Shiro’s memories will be wiped instead of the Champion.”

“How do you know this?” she asked, shaking at the thought. “Did you look into it?”

“I asked a few sorcerers around the castle,” he confessed. “It was after we discovered you were taken. I had a brief chat with Shiro and… I figured that if it was possible I should investigate the matter. But the reason I tell you this is because I know you’ll be logical and admit that we need to know everything the Champion knows, no matter how terrible or tragic it may be.”

Pidge sighed over her forgotten food, and laid down her fork. “How can we do that when we hardly know what might trigger the Champion? Besides, when I spoke to him, he seemed far too depressed to participate in our charades. I don’t want to push him anymore—I just want him to be _normal_ again.”

“There is no ‘normal’ for Shiro now—or at least your version of it,” Coran said. “This is who he is, and the man he is now is far too dangerous for us to comprehend. His hand of Steel is proof of this.”

“Coran,” Pidge said, voice pressing, “Shiro is still the knight who protected my brother—the Champion is _not_ Shiro. We can’t… _You_ can’t pretend as though they’re the same person. They aren’t responsible for each other’s actions. If there’s a chance that Shiro can be separated from the Champion, then fuck logic—I want to suggest it to him.”

“Pidge, you can’t be serious,” Coran said with a sigh. “ _Any_ information on the Galra is invaluable.”

“And so are the lives of Alteans and Terrans,” she countered. “Shiro’s health depends on it.”

“Are you completely ignoring the fact that there’s a fifty-fifty chance that we won’t be saving Shiro but the Champion? The work of sorcerers is rather imprecise when it comes to the human mind. The amount of stress it puts on both individuals is unbelievable—whichever part of Shiro is strongest will persevere. In the state Shiro’s in now, we can’t be certain he will have the motivation to stay himself through the end.” 

As Coran spoke, Pidge’s outlook became bleaker. She often thought of how Shiro seemed so withdrawn and resigned, even throughout the course of their conversation. And when he receded from her at the mention of who Matthew would be up against in the gladiatorial ring… the look on his face was something she couldn’t forget, and thought frequently of whenever Matthew came to mind. 

“You see now why we can’t entertain this idea,” Coran interrupted her thoughts, and after a moment she nodded.

_When Shiro’s better, then maybe he will stand a chance against the Champion_ , she thought, not daring to speak it out loud when she left her plate behind, and Coran with it.

  


  


The first six months of Pidge’s stay was marked by the following week, when Pidge and Hunk returned from the port where a barge collected the first ever supply of Voltron firearms. They both felt equally sick as they watched the barge leave the harbor, pushing the crates of Voltron gear ahead of it. Pidge gave Hunk a sympathetic hug, noticing that the bigger man was starting to tear up.

“I’m fine—really,” he said, sniffing. “It’s not like I feel as though my firstborn child was just sent off to be _exploded_ or anything.”

“Hunk,” Pidge warned, though she was holding back a ridiculous laugh. Of all the phrases…

“What? It’s true.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t mean you have to say it out loud. They’ll be fine—they’re well-looked after, and besides, the security boats will be with it the entire way. There’s no need to worry about them so long as they’re on the sea, and in our territory,” Pidge reassured, both for Hunk and for herself. Coran had been telling her the same thing every day this past week.

They were just starting to leave the harbor when Hunk paused outside of their carriage and squinted at something in the distance. At first Pidge was alarmed—was there a sniper nearby? Did he spot a patch of purple skin somewhere? But no, he was just observing a ship off in the distance with a peculiar look on his face.

He scratched his chin and said, “Do you see all the ships in that direction?” He waved farther off the coast, where boats dotted the horizon. 

“Yes, they’re Altean ships.”

“Yes, from _Allura’s_ fleet—which means _that’s_ her ship,” Hunk said, pointed a finger to the harbor. Pidge had no clue what Allura’s ship looked like, but the thought of it sent her eyes wide and her attention straight to Hunk. He looked petrified. “This isn’t good—why is she back so soon? It’s been half a year!”

“She must be on her way to the castle,” Pidge said, and after a moment’s hesitation, they were both scrambling into the carriage and shouting for the driver to get a move on! As fast as you can! _Go, go, go!_

They cruised through the capital at top speed, the horses in their wake vacating the streets to allow for a swift maneuver, and an even quicker arrival at the castle gates. Pidge and Hunk were out the door before the carriage even rolled to a stop in front of the stairs. The reason being: a carriage arrived there no more than a minute before them.

“Throne room! Throne room!” Hunk shouted when Pidge was about to take a turn down the wrong corridor. He grabbed her by the wrist and they skidded across the tiles, careening around corners, and at last shouting at the guards to open the door—who cared about announcing their arrival? _Allura was in there_.

They barged in just in time to hear the echo, “Well, where the hell is he?!” in that familiar, accented Altean voice.

Pidge scrambled to cling onto Hunk, terrified of the amount of fury that backed Allura’s words. As she looked around, she found that Keith was nowhere in sight, but instead there stood Coran, facing the Admiral’s ire on his own.

At first, both Pidge and Hunk assumed the conversation was about Keith’s absence, but then Coran spoke:

“Shirogane’s been in confinement since the last letter.”

“In _confinement?_ ” Allura seethed. “Enough of the euphemisms, Coran—you mean to say he’s been imprisioned? And that you all consented to it?” 

She had a piece of paper in her hand that she shook about, and at last threw at Coran. He stepped back from them and let them scatter on the ground. She stormed away, shouting, “Where the hell is Keith? I need to speak with him.”

“More like _yell at him_ ,” Hunk muttered as they approached. As soon as Allura was a sufficient distance away, Pidge found it safe enough to nab one of the papers and attempt to recognize the handwriting. It wasn’t Shiro—Keith, perhaps? From the few sentences she read, it was reiterating the experience dated more than a month ago.

Coran pinched his fingers over the bridge of his nose and, exhaling deeply, bent down to retrieve the letters. He took the paper from Pidge’s hands and said, tired, “Allura’s returned.”

“So I’ve heard,” Hunk commented, taking the papers Coran passed to him. “Do you want me to follow after her? Make sure she doesn’t tear Keith’s head from his shoulders?”

“No, not unless you’re looking to have your own head detached,” he said. “Take the letters to Lance. Last I heard he was in conference with the Lord General.”

As Hunk agreed to it, Pidge followed, and Coran left to investigate the damage Allura was sure to make. He marched into the King’s office corridor just in time to find Keith leaving, looking more than just a bit pissed. The fierceness of his glower was enough to warn Coran away, but not enough to prevent him from asking, “So you’ve seen Allura then?”

“She’s going to the solitary confinement keep,” Keith answered, seething with his fists bunched up at his sides. Coran motioned for the guards near them to step away and give them enough room to avoid eavesdroppers. “I _told her_ he isn’t in the position to be bullied about his lack of affection for her.”

Coran hissed under his breath, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have said that to her.”

“Well, I figured she’d understand,” Keith exclaimed, throwing his arms down. “Evidently not! She doesn’t take no for an answer.”

“You know, there’s a reason why she’s Admiral. So how long did it take for you to cave and tell her where he was?” Coran asked, though he’d already finished the calculations in his head. Between Allura’s departure from the throne room, the run to the King’s office, Coran had to estimate…

“Not even a minute,” Keith answered for him, rolling his eyes. “I would go to the keep to stop her from flattening him myself, but—”

“I wouldn’t recommend that. Let me take care of it,” he interrupted, patting Keith on the back as he passed. “And next time, lock your office door should you hear anything concerning Allura being in a terrible mood.”

“Dually noted,” Keith grumbled, disappearing into his office and slamming the door shut behind him. 

Coran jogged the length of the hall, to the separate wing where he then descended the stairs to the keep. The guards pointed in the direction of where Allura disappeared off to, and as Coran went there, he skidded to a halt near the private cell corridor entrance. It was still closed, and he found Allura standing before it, staring at it, shaking. He recognized her posture well enough to tell that she didn’t want to confront Shiro the way she was now. So she stood resolutely, eyes shut and trying to reign in her emotions. 

Coran walked slowly as he approached her, aware that she needed time to compose herself, and talking to him wouldn’t help—he could tell that much. So he waited, and stood beside her until at last she sniffed and rubbed the back of her leather-gloved hand against her cheek. “Coran,” she started, voice steady. “What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you are all right,” he answered, and reached an arm out to comfort her. She nearly seemed to lean into it, but then discretely pushed them away, and stepped closer towards the corridor entrance. Her metal shoulder pads bunched up to her ears, but her expression told him that she wasn’t being this way because she was angered by him. She just didn’t need to be comforted yet.

“Me?” she repeated, “and what of Shiro? Have you even come to visit him at all? All this time?”

It was easy for Coran to come to the conclusion that admitting his antipathy towards Shiro wouldn’t do him any good. In truth, he only saw Shiro once, and it was back when Pidge was kidnapped. After that experience, he was content in assuming the feeling was mutual. But now, even after knowing—perhaps not first hand, but still aware of—everything Shiro had done, his beloved niece was still siding with that beast in the cell? 

But he couldn’t be biased. Coran knew this, and no matter how difficult it was to put himself in her position, he was willing to do it. For her.

“No, I haven’t,” Coran admitted slowly, and it flustered her all the more. He interrupted her potential tirade with, “Not in person, anyway—I have the guards who patrol this sector and maintain his cell keep in touch with me. I know everything that goes on down here—”

“But you know as well as I do that gradual change in a person isn’t so easily noticed by people who see them every day,” Allura said, her lips twisted. “And that is such a broad statement. You cannot possibly know everything that happens in these castle walls.”

“It is impossible to know everything, even in one vicinity,” Coran agreed, which only seemed to set her off. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t try. We did what we thought best, and it was with Shiro’s consent. For Pidge’s safety. We all care for the safety of our friends, and it may not look like it, but they care for Shiro.”

Allura dropped her gaze, and faintly repeated, “‘They’? I know you do not want to admit to me that you detest Shiro. And oppose to my feelings towards him. Is this why you don’t include yourself in the group of people who care for Shiro?” 

At this, Allura’s staggering blue eyes pierced Coran’s, and he felt broken at the sight. She was still so young, and so much of her life awaited her. And yet, she was stronger than ever in the midst of an external war. He imagined that her naïveté and the subtle looseness of her armor would fit her better in the years to come. But for now, he had to stand in place of her father, whether she wanted it or not. 

“I would never lie to you,” he started. “And I won’t deceive you into thinking that I accept Shiro. I think he has potential to be dangerous, and given the state we are in, we can’t take chances. Especially when Pidge—the last Terran Royal—was kidnapped over a month ago. 

“However… I won’t pass judgement where it isn’t due. Because I expect that you will make an intelligent decision. And I will respect it,” he finished. She watched him with unnervingly stoic eyes, her hand resting on the door.

She blinked at him for a moment before saying, flatly, “I do not intend to keep Shiro in a cell, as you do.”

“Have you considered the benefits of both situations?” Coran asked. “The safety of the castle and its inhabitants, and the safety of himself?”

“I have a plan, Coran. It will solve both of those,” she told him. “Mainly because I don’t believe a cell is what will keep Shiro safe.”


	25. Voltron

There was a moment of panic before each fight. It persisted in tearing down Takashi Shirogane’s confidence, stripping him of his training knowledge, and replaced it all with unadulterated fear. Every goddamn time he stared at the dusty, concrete floor knowing that he might not see it again. He might not see the inside of his cell again, he might not see the sky, the ground, or—Matthew. He hadn’t seen Matthew in _weeks_. 

Thinking of his Prince sent his mind spiraling, and not towards the depressing pit in which his panic rose. He was doing this to survive. He _would_ survive, for the sake of helping Prince Matthew. He _had_ to fight, he _had_ to win. It was simply this: Nothing mattered except Shiro’s ingrain ability to _win_.

But this battle was like all the others. It was just him in the pit outside the gladiatorial ring, erupting in echoes of excitement that shook his ribcage. There were thousands of people out there, waiting for this bloodbath. Because they all knew what Shiro refused to believe:

That he would _lose_.

Every pre-Champion was just as terrified as Shiro, knowing what they were up against. He’d seen this Champion enough times to know just what, exactly, he was getting himself into. He’d never leave this place intact, but it was fine. It was fine because no matter what, no matter how they devoured him, body and soul, he’d come out of this with Matthew safe, and one step closer to freedom.

“Takashi,” someone hissed his name from behind, stepping up beside him. The figure was looming and dark, and gripped the back of Shiro’s neck where his slave collar was. “It was a pleasure training you, Terran scum,” he said, the familiar smirk twisting Shiro’s sneer as he turned his head away. Shiro knew how to keep his mouth shut, especially with all his training as a knight for the King’s Guard, but training as a gladiator made the urge to stay quiet even stronger. A sharp tongue never amounted to good.

Shiro’s trainer was accompanied by a guard, who said something in Galran that made the man laugh and shove Shiro forward, towards the door. There were some words Shiro knew and picked up quickly—most of them vulgar, and enough to know exactly what he said: “Excited to see your pet get fucked?”

“Immensely. Open the gate.”

The workers grabbed hold of the chains and ropes, slowly grinding the entrance open. Dust shook off the massive gate, and spread clouds of it across the ground near Shiro’s feet. He held his cuffed hands out to the guard, who released them and let them drop to the ground. It would be the last time the Galra had Shiro in chains.

The barrier that muffled the crowd dissipated, and left Shiro momentarily blinded and deaf as he adjusted to the light outdoors. Everything was washed over in white, but he knew better than to assume the coliseum was that pure. He stepped out onto the dirt and gravel, using his hand as a visor, squinting around him at the massive walls towering over him that circumnavigated the mile-around ring. The white faded, and the coliseum took form.

The dusty color that surrounded him was divided by seven columns, and as he stopped to observe, a clank of metal hit the ground next to him. Behind the roar of people, he distinctly heard his exit closing, and turned to watch the vile grin on his trainer’s face disappear behind it. He flipped him off one last time before swiping up his weapon. 

It was a sword, one that he was familiar with in training. The cross guard was blunt and smooth, and combined nearly perfectly with the handle—not exactly the ideal situation, but it would have to do. The sword itself was a peculiar shape, slightly curved, and wider near the top. It was a common style in the Galra Empire.

A loud, blaring sound quieted the stadium. The oncoming hush sent Shiro’s insides scrambling. _It’s time. It’s time. I can do this. I can do this_ …

But then the opposite entrance opened. It was so far off that his opponent seemed like nothing more than a spec on the horizon, but they were the height of the entire gate. Shiro looked back at his own gate. He was perhaps even less than half the size of it. 

There was no such thing as a handshake before battle here. They wouldn’t meet at the middle. The second the Champion entered the rank, the fight was on, and Shiro instantly took to the shadows of one of the pillars. Panic swelled in his breast, and he clung to his chest to try and steady his pounding heart. It echoed like the roar of the people around him, and the crude curses from atop the wall nearest him. 

Shiro hurried to the edge of the pillar and peered around it, and all at once knew just where the Champion was—the crowd was alerting him to the danger on the other side of the pillar, and in a swift roll managed to dodge the sledgehammer that broke a chunk of the pillar away. Shards of stone ricocheted through the air, and he dodged a block that was thrown at him.

It was then that he saw the beast before him, and recognized the Champion for what they were: a woman who’d been turned into a creature the size of a bear, hollowed out at the chest where the shadows pulsed under the beat of her own heart. Her face was engulfed in shadows, hidden behind the pillar, but as she stepped forward, Shiro shouted in horror, nearly losing his grasp on his sword as he turned and ran as fast as his legs could carry him—

  


  


“Shiro?” The voice was strained, full of worry. Something stung at his chest, and he grasped at it to ensure that his wound hadn’t opened again—no, it was healed. He was fine. He wasn’t bleeding, dying, and his arm—

Shiro dropped his arms back down over his chest and sighed, relieved. It was just a horrific memory masquerading as a dream. He couldn’t convince his subconscious to forget the horrors, especially after recalling it every day for the past… 

How long has it been?

“Shiro, over here. It’s me—Allura.” Shiro blinked and sat up a bit from the bed, and tried to process what he was seeing. The small window that gave him a glimpse of the outside of his cell was now showing him the face of Admiral Allura. She peered in at him with those same, strikingly blue eyes, her leather-gloved hands grabbing the bars on either side of her cheeks. 

“A-Allura?” he stammered, clearing his throat as he dropped his feet to the floor and stood. He kept away from the door, narrowing his eyes at her. “Why are you—It hasn’t been a year yet.” _Or has it?_ Not likely.

She sucked in her lips, seeming to struggle with the ability to speak, until finally her voice rose, choked up and strained, “No, it hasn’t. I came to see you.”

Shiro was fully aware that he sent her that letter. It was meant to prevent her from doing something rash… like this. It was meant to keep her away from him, as it should have been the moment he came to Altea. He never should have come to Altea.

“Y-You should go, I can’t—We shouldn’t be talking,” he said, gripping his stomach when the words settled in and stung his gut. 

Allura shook her head quickly, leaning in closer. “No, I’m not leaving until I say what is on my mind,” she told him resolutely, and her sympathetic expression was enough to drag Shiro’s eyes to the floor. At least Pidge never looked at him like that when she visited—as if she felt wholeheartedly sorry for him. Allura wasn’t as well-acquainted with his past as Pidge was.

“Please, Allura, I do not want to talk to you,” Shiro said. “You need to leave.”

“Shiro!” she shouted, “Let me help you—come here, please.” He watched the shadow of her hand fall against the door, and onto the floor he stared at. He turned his gaze up to it, and resisted, holding his hands together behind him. “Takashi, please. Let’s talk about this—I can help you. I am here now. I just need you to be here for me—come here.”

Shiro broke his hands free to push them over his face, and hide just how much Allura’s words meant to him, and how they ripped through his chest, exposing the parts he’d been trying to put together all that time in the cell. He heaved a shaky breath, and stepped towards her, so that the hand she snaked through the bars could hold his wrist, and pull one of his hands away from his face.

He couldn’t look at her.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for all of this, but I am now. I won’t leave you behind again,” she said, shaking his arm with each sharp enunciation, until her voice shook at the end and they were both crying. She laughed against the bars at how ridiculous she felt, and admitted that her arm was going numb. “I’m going to get the key to your cell—”

“No, Allura—don’t,” Shiro said weakly when she pulled away from the bars before he could stop her. If there was one thing he knew, it was that anyone remotely human rarely ever listened to these three words: “Don’t, no, and stop.” Allura was just as human as he was, and defied him as she ran away from his cell and out of the corridor.

When she returned, it was with the key, and a smile that she gave him as she unlocked his door. He stayed on the far side of the room, his anxiety spiking at the thought of _leaving_ this place. How could he keep himself together without a room to do the work for him? At least here, no one was susceptible to his eventual breaking point.

The door creaked open, and Allura pulled it completely out. She took a step into the space, and swept her gaze across it, inspecting each bare corner, including the one Shiro stood in. She reached a hand out to him, and just like before, he walked towards it.

“We don’t have to talk about it now,” she told him. “But being in a box like this won’t do you any good.”

She wound her fingers through his, and, after a moment, he squeezed tightly. “But what about—? Do Coran and the King know about this?”

“In a way. But they won’t have to worry about you now—you are coming with me, back to the harbor,” she told him, guiding him out of the cell. He’d stepped foot outside the door before, to bathe and such, but he was always cuffed. 

Her words didn’t process until Allura at last turned away and started walking towards the exit. There were two guards waiting for her there, in armor similar to her own. It was slim-cut and well-fitted, without bulky additions, or dramatized engravings. They were simple and modest, as were all Altean armor codes. But Shiro was aware of the differences in the Admiral’s cut, and the overall adjustments made to the Navy.

“You… mean to say that I’m coming with you?” Shiro corrected, stuttering to a halt near the door. “Overseas?”

“Yes, and you can be apart of my fleet if you want. You would have your own cabin and uniform, each of my men are equipped with a compass and multitool, you—you… don’t look excited about this,” she finished, knitting her brows together when Shiro didn’t deny it. “What is it? Do you get sea sick? You know it’s just a myth that sailors get scurvy, too—we have plenty of nutrients—”

“It isn’t that,” Shiro interrupted, shaking his head. “I simply don’t think it’d be a good idea… to strand yourself out in the middle of the ocean with me. If something were to happen…”

At this Allura grabbed both his hands and shook them, saying, “If you keep doubting yourself, you will never have the strength to step out of your comfort zone. Your cell, over there, is where you leave your apprehensions behind and _come with me_ , and accept what you are: a _human_.”

  


  


Shiro was fitted with Altean Navy apparel prior to their departure. He felt a little hollow and empty as opposed to the suppressing, unrelenting internal discourse in the cell. It was a welcome change, and one that made it somewhat possible for him to face Pidge again. 

The news of Allura’s rampage through the castle sparked the interest of the gunsmith, who he first caught a glimpse of through the mirror in his room. The room itself hardly changed since he was last in there, except for the fact that the rug was missing, and he swore he kicked a dog toy away at one point. When he turned to face Pidge, he realized why that was.

“You… have a dog now,” he commented, pointing to the pup that snuck into the room. “A war dog?”

“His name is Rover. He came with me when I visited you—he’s quiet, though,” she confessed. The pup approached Shiro, who took a cautious step back. War dogs were known to attack without warning, which was what made them such lethal creatures on the battlefield. Instead, Rover merely sniffed his hand, the one that didn’t belong to Shiro, and did nothing about it. “See? He’s quiet.”

Shiro smiled apprehensively, patting the pup on the head before it turned away to investigate the untouched comforter on the bed. Pidge hadn’t moved from the doorway. “So you’re leaving, then? With Allura?” she commented.

After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Yes, I am. For the remaining half-year, it seems.”

Pidge nodded, and didn’t speak for a while. In the silence, Shiro adjusted the cuffs on his wrists and watched Rover claim a spot on the floor and lay down. Pidge cleared her throat then. “I… should probably mention that I don’t go by Prince Matthew anymore,” she said, and something inside Shiro prompted him to smile. 

“Since when?” 

“Since I recovered after the kidnapping,” she confessed, rubbing at her arm. “I probably could have told you, but it wasn’t official yet. But… it’s better this way. With the Voltron factory and all.”

Shiro attempted to smile—he truly was happy for her, but he could only think of all the wrongs he’s done to her. “That’s great, Pidge. I’m glad you’re doing well.”

Pidge had her hands behind her back until that point, and she stepped over the threshold of the door to show him the box she kept hidden. It was long and narrow, and attached to it was a ribbon. The universal sign for a present. He started to object, but she pushed it into his hands. 

“We started distribution today, so… I think it’s fair that you’re included in a part of the Voltron series,” she said, and tucked her bottom lip between her teeth. She looked at him expectantly, but he already knew what was inside the box.

“I shouldn’t… I mean, I love what you do and what you and Hunk have created, but… I shouldn’t be given a weapon like this,” he told her, shaking his head. “You don’t have to give this to me out of obligation—”

“I know what I said,” she interrupted hastily, “but trust me when I say this isn’t obligation. You played a part in this too. I never could have made these if it weren’t for you. You… helped a lot, Shiro, even if you don’t think so.”

He blinked at her, watching her face flush and embarrassment start to show. It made him all the more awkward when pulling the box close to his chest. “Thank you, Pidge,” he said. “I’ll keep it at my side—without ammunition.”

Surprisingly, she laughed, which spread his smile wider. “Well, this is goodbye then. Take a look at the name on the side—Hunk and I titled each of the models separately,” she told him, and reached a hand out to him. He took it, and after a brief shake, she was off and out the door, calling Rover’s name as she went. The pup scrambled up and trotted after her. 

Shiro stared down at the box and carefully tugged at the ribbons. It was a regular wooden box, carved smooth and neat without a scratch on it. When he lifted the lid, inside sat a pistol with a double-barrel revolver, and a redwood finish over the handle. It was polished and clean-cut, and as he set the box aside and lifted it up, the light caught on the side of the metal barrel. Engraved on it, in standard type, was the gun’s name.

_TS VOLTRON_.

  


  


Shiro’s departure prompted Pidge and Hunk to distribute their gifted guns. After leaving Shiro’s room, Pidge made her rounds to Hunk’s room where she found him adjusting the latch on one of the two remaining boxes. Only, as she observed them, she found an extra one sitting on the side, longer than the rest. It didn’t take her long to recognize the shape, and know exactly which model sat inside of it.

“You didn’t have to make a case for mine,” Pidge said, causing Hunk to look up from his work. He quickly looked down, and if she didn’t know any better, she’d guess he was blushing. 

“Well, I wanted to make a case for yours—I mean, if you don’t want it you don’t have to take it. It was just a gesture and I suppose it doesn’t really matter—” he started rambling, twisting the tool in his hand left and right until it toppled right out of his hand. 

Pidge walked over to the box as he babbled on, and observed it carefully. She sat next to him and patted his knee. “It’s fine, Hunk. I love it.”

He laughed, nudging her in the side before returning to the box in his hands. He twisted the screw through a hole on the latch to secure it in place. “ _There_. That should do it. Test it for me?” Pidge took the box from his hands and flipped the latch into place, securing it in the divot that kept it shut. She pressed the sides of it as she’d done with her own, and released the latch. “Good?”

“Yes, very good,” she answered with a laugh. “Is it ready for them?”

“I think so. Come on—I can carry them. You just hang onto yours,” Hunk told her, and got up for the brief excursion across the castle. As they left Hunk’s room, Pidge tagged along at a slower pace, opening up her box again to observe the pristine weapon inside. The single barrel was marked with _PG VOLTRON_ , and topped with a single-eyepiece binocular lens—a scope. It was her favorite model, and Hunk knew as much when they were titling the series. It was the last to be released, mainly because she spent so much time fine-tuning the scope and the cartridge capsule. This would be the weapon archers would upgrade to.

Pidge shut the box as they arrived at Keith’s offices. They didn’t find him there, but after talking with one of the guards outside of it, they set out for the courtyard. 

It was chiller now, so Pidge buttoned up her jacket as they exited the overhang and walked along the leaf-covered walkway. Hunk had on a scarf that he wrapped around Pidge’s neck after seeing her nose turn pink and her jaw chatter. “You don’t have to—” she started, but was silenced by the wooly fabric over her mouth.

“Keep it—I have plenty,” he said, smiling.

She adjusted the scarf so it freed her mouth, and grinned appreciatively at him. She determined that Hunk’s kindness was one of her favorite things in the world. 

They found Keith somewhere between the cherry trees and the small maze of shrubbery and flowers. They were at the top of the hill when they realized that Lance was with Keith, walking around the stone path. Lance had his arm through Keith’s, whose hands were occupied by a hardback novel. Keith was reading aloud, and Pidge could hear his stern voice from up on the hill, however muffled and incomprehensible from this far. 

Hunk groaned, his arms flopping forward with the boxes between them. “Gah, why do they have to be so cute all the time?”

“I wouldn’t say _all the time_ ,” Pidge corrected, swinging a leg forward and starting down the hill. Hunk complained about how he didn’t want to interrupt them, but Pidge was already on her way.

Lance saw her before Keith did, considering he wasn’t the one with his nose in a book. He tapped Keith’s page before pointing at the hill where Pidge was running at them, Hunk lumbering behind. 

Keith slipped a bookmark between the pages before shutting the cover. “What is it? You look excited,” he commented. 

Now thoroughly out of breath, Pidge gestured wordlessly to Hunk. The guard was lagging behind still. At last, she uttered, “We… have a present for you two.”

“Really? What is it?” Lance said, prying his arm free to jump towards Hunk, who delivered the largest of the two boxes to him. Lance released a thrilled gasp, screaming a little as he took up the box and inspected the outside. 

“Hunk made the cases—they’re custom for you guys,” Pidge interrupted, aware that the exclamation sent a blush to Hunk’s cheeks.

“Well, I mean, it’s nothing—I guess I just figured you needed something to keep them in and stuff…” Hunk rambled, releasing the final box into Keith’s hands. Pidge held his book as he undid the latch and flipped open the top. 

Keith wasn’t much for gasping and screaming like Lance was, but Pidge saw his intrigue turn to absolute delight in the way his eyebrows shot skyward, eyes wide and smile growing. “You… oh my Lord it has my initials on it,” he said, dislodging the revolver from the case and running his fingers across the engraved barrel. 

“Shit, no way!” Lance cried out, swiftly opening his box and screaming with excitement. He pranced on his feet, holding out the double-barreled shotgun for Keith to see. The King was too invested in his own weapon to bother with Lance’s. “This is so cool—Look! _LB Voltron!_ ” 

“So it says,” Keith commented, absently passing the box to Hunk, who took it and donned a nervous expression when Keith turned away and raised up the revolver, as if preparing to shoot. 

Pidge let out a squeak as Hunk warned, “I-I don’t think the courtyard is considered a shooting range—Keith!” They all screamed just as Keith pulled the trigger… and realized that while it did let out an explosion, it was blank. No one would be shot by Keith that day.

“Can I test mine now?” Lance shouted, seeing as all their ears were ringing. He was already pulling out the gun.

Hunk cried out, “No no no, don’t shoot it! Shooting a gun without ammunition is like snapping a bowstring without an arrow!”

“Aw,” Keith whined.

“I mean, it’s fine now, but—”

“So I can shoot it?” Lance perked up again, raising up the shotgun. Pidge grabbed the barrel and pointed it at the ground, jerking Lance forward as she did so. 

“It’s _not_ recommended,” Pidge said, voice stern. She had Lance’s eyes locked on hers, but after a second, he shook his shotgun free of her grasp.

“Whatever. If Keith gets to shoot his gun then so can I,” Lance declared seconds before aiming at the cherry tree on top of the hill and firing the weapon. As the exploding sound went off, a gardener was passing over the hillside, and leapt and ducked for cover, hat tumbling and supplies flailing out of his arms. Pidge had her hands over her mouth, while Keith and Hunk had their hands over their ears. 

“Why do you always have to go against us?” Keith yelled, not out of anger, but just out of impending deafness. 

Lance was grinning like a complete child as he shouted back, “What did you say?!”

“Unbelievable,” Hunk complained, passing Keith his box before walking away. Pidge, originally concerned about shooting guns out in the open courtyard, suddenly found the situation hysterical. She broke out into unrelenting giggles, doubling over and onto the grass as Lance started laughing at her lack of self-control. They were both on the ground hooting and hollering, Lance holding his gun high over his head. The end of the barrel was now a smokey black, and beyond that Pidge could see Keith shaking his head at them.

Keith reached down to Pidge, snatched his book back, and started walking away with his box tucked under one arm. At once Lance was sitting up, sobering his laughter. “Wh-Where are you going?” he said, stifling his giggles.

“To the shooting range, where do you think?” Keith answered, glancing sparingly back at them. “Are you coming?”

With a gasp, Lance scrambled to his feet, taking his box and shotgun with him. Pidge scrambled up, exclaiming, “Wait for me! I still have to show you mine!” The three of them hurried across the castle grounds to the archery field where, after the ruckus in the courtyard, servants and workers became interested in their antics. They gathered around as they did during the experimental stages of the weapons, and Pidge was thrilled to find them all as ecstatic as she was about this. She would let them hold her rifle, look out the scope with it, and talk to them about the factory. They all looked at her as if she was some miracle, some sort of apparition come to liberate their family members in the war.

And at the time, she felt as ethereal as they convinced themselves she was. But anything that wonderful would have to come to an end.


	26. Fresh Water

  


“So what is it you do, exactly? When you’re out at sea?” Shiro had asked when he first settled into the carrack and joined Allura on the deck. They weren’t setting sail for another hour or so, but he found that many of the men spent little time on land during the short stop. Allura mentioned that it had something to do with the transition from land to sea—the sailors wouldn’t want to get sick on the way out again.

He didn’t know much at the time, and realized how new and raw this experience was. Shiro never even considered the idea of joining the navy. He was always set on the military, and then the King’s Guard. He was family friends with the Holts’ Lord General, which made the process easier.

But now, this was entirely new terrane, or rather, new waters. And, after several days, he found it perfect for him. It was the perfect opportunity to simply… forget. The sea was so different from all the troubles on land.

“We sail to our neighboring countries, overseas. We don’t participate in the war—any attack on a Galra fleet would be considered an act of war. Until I receive word from Keith, we won’t be disrupting Galra ships,” she explained to him. “But since we aren’t necessarily in war, and we aren’t here for exploration, we take reports on islands and countries that are aided by Altea. And since it’s harder to help countries from afar when trouble sparks, we hope to be closer for when it does happen.”

“‘When’ it happens. It seems to me that we’re just waiting for the war to break out,” Shiro commented, and recalled how Allura smirked at him, almost as if she wanted to snap at him for his snark. 

“We’ll just have to wait and see,” she said just as one of the sailors came to call her attention away from Shiro. 

That was several weeks ago. Now, given the time that passed, Shiro was acquainted with the company the ship provided. It reminded him of his days at military, and how every newbie was a chance to share all your old stories with. The sailors passed their spare time either sleeping, or talking with Shiro about anything an everything; their life before the navy; their family back on shore; their childhood.

Admiral Allura, though superior to them and intimidating to the sailors, showed her appreciation for the men and women on board. They shared with Shiro every last detail of what brought them to Allura’s fleet, and how incredible she was as captain of the ship, and admiral of the fleet. 

“You see that boom up there? I’ve seen her sprint across it like she was on land—have you ever tried even _standing_ on one a them booms?”

“She’s leapt from one topsail to the other—from _two_ _different ships_.”

“Have you heard that the Admiral climbed the main topmast when she was just eight?”

After all this talk about Allura’s unrivaled agility and strength, Shiro was thoroughly intimidated. He now knew what the other sailors felt like, except, he was actually teetering the line of being romantically involved with Admiral Allura. The other sailors were not (or so he hoped).

The days were busier than Shiro expected them to be. He wasn’t trained like the rest of the men—Shiro was trained for fighting, defending, and, by the Galra, attacking. This art of sailing a ship was beyond him. He saw Allura nearly every moment of the day, but rarely talked to her, or was given a moment to be with her—it made it easy for the sailors to miss the fact that Shiro and Allura were mad for each other.

Though, Shiro didn’t mind the hard work. In fact, he relished it. Training in the cell did wonders to improve his strength, and he only needed to learn the ropes to amount to the strength the Admiral’s best possessed. Shiro was even more toned, firmer, and resilient than ever. It did wonders in improving his mental state, especially when the time came for Shiro to share his own story with the sailors who trusted him with theirs. 

Of course, there was judgement in the start. He didn’t mention the details of his wrongdoings to Matthew, but he did mention the details of his Champion-hood. He remembered repeating the words to himself at night, quietly, in his head, over and over until they were numbing. And he wondered how people felt comfort in telling the truth, when all Shiro felt was shame.

While his words numbed him to the core, they moved the sailors. They’d sneer at him for a while, but return for retellings, and soon they came to accept Shiro. They accepted him, even though he harmed the Princess, he attacked the Princess, he attacked the Prince, he harmed the Prince. But the sailors accepted the tale because they knew Shiro wasn’t acting on his own free will. The Galra took it. It was the Galra who hurt the Prince and Princess. Not Shiro. Never Shiro.

Mealtimes were spent on the deck, and the food was rationed out. Since they left Altea’s mainland, they had yet to stop elsewhere, which meant that the food onboard would be stretched to last until their next docking. Shiro didn’t mind the small meals, especially when, on most days, he spent dinner with Allura in her cabin. It was one of the few times they spent alone together, and he reveled in it.

Allura, on those days, was hardly the pristine woman he first met in Altea all those months ago. While she was refined in her demeanor, there were parts of her that slackened at sea. Her uniform was lax, her hair unwashed and disheveled, and she had the appearance of a person who had minimal sleep the past several nights. She always claimed she slept like a babe out on sea, but the bags under her eyes said otherwise.

But she retained all her usual mannerisms. She sat straight, ate like a noblewoman, and talked to her sailors like a superior would her underlings. She was stern, articulate, and analytic. But when Shiro ate with her, she wasn’t one for smalltalk. She seemed to view him as her secondhand, and shared information that wouldn’t otherwise be shared with her sailors. He was keen on interpreting each look she passed her way, when her voice softened, when it became sharp, when she smiled, frowned, pursed her lips in annoyance. He came to know her well just from her nonverbal appearances.

Shiro wasn’t bold enough to act on his impulses, as he knew Lance was with Keith. Shiro was fully aware of his position under Allura, and wouldn’t overstep his bounds unless she initiated it. The last thing he wanted was to give her an excuse to toss him overboard.

At this time, as he watched her and listened to her from across the table, it took a moment for him to realize that her conversation ceased, and she was looking at him curiously. She tilted her head, her grin turning snarky. “Have something to say?” she asked.

Shiro would have blushed, had he been capable of it at the time. Some days he still got a tad bit sea sick, and it caused his entire face to become void of color. It wasn’t enough to shy him away from food, however. “Nothing, I just love listening to you talk is all,” he confessed, and quickly took a bite of bread to avoid saying anything further.

Allura’s dark skin grew darker around her cheeks. “You are always like this,” she commented after a moment of silence.

“Like what?”

When she didn’t answer directly, he realized she was flustered, or perhaps aggravated with him. _Dammit, I screwed it up_ , he thought instantly, struggling to swallow his food. Before she could speak, he instantly said, “I didn’t—I am sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

This time, her eyebrows creased, and he recognized that look. She was angry, and turned her sour expression up to him. “Don’t apologize,” she said, stern as ever. “What I meant was this: Every now and then you say things that make me feel… incredible, like how we were before I left for sea. Except you never continue with them and it gets exacerbating after a while.”

Shiro’s countenance went from panicked to shocked in a matter of seconds. He blinked at her before clearing his throat, wishing he didn’t feel quite as nauseous then. “I just—I wasn’t sure how you felt about me. I’m still not sure, after everything that happened. I do not want to make you uncomfortable, or pressure you—”

“No one can pressure me,” she argued, insulted. “I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions. And I already decided that I want you, Shiro. I want you to be great, and everything you aspire to be.”

“When did you decide this?” he asked, feeling both empty and full, overwhelmed by Allura’s words. 

“When I first left. Nothing has changed between us,” she said, and emphasized this by reaching her hand across the table, and taking his. “No matter what you think. Nothing has changed between us. I still ardently admire you.”

Shiro tightened his grip on her hand, thankful that the action wasn’t forced, or conflicted—even the logical part of his brain insisted that nothing had changed. Allura hadn’t changed at all. She was firm, solid, and someone he could cling to. He _wanted_ to. 

“I admire you as well,” he admitted with a laugh, strained because suddenly it felt like his throat closed up. And suddenly, it felt like his stomach was about to burst. 

Allura’s smile was genuine, but it quickly turned to concern. “Are you all right? You look ill.”

“I think I am,” he confessed, pulling his hand away and scrambling to his feet. He ran for the door, and for the railing where he expelled his dinner into the ocean. He hated the taste of bile on his tongue, and spat it into the ocean. The length down to the ocean was great enough that he couldn’t even see the ringlets from the impact.

Shiro coughed and held the back of his hand over his mouth, now aware of the shadow being cast next to him on the rail. He would have laughed, if only the action wouldn’t upset his stomach more than it already was. 

Allura reached a hand out to him, and in it was a dusty brown crumb he knew all too well. He took it from her as she said, “Chew it slowly. It will help.”

“Thank you,” he uttered, still partially covering his mouth as he swallowed down the remnants. His smile was both amused and embarrassed, which amounted to the color now returning to his face. Soon, even his ears would flame red, and it was enough for Allura to laugh good-naturedly at. 

She placed her hand on his back and gave it a pat. “You should get some rest. Sometimes it is easiest to sleep through the nausea,” she suggested, and he consented to it. 

He turned to head below deck, but Allura stopped him not far from the turn to the captain’s cabin. There weren’t many men or women up on the deck, and they were used to Allura stopping and talking with the sailors, but the fact that they were out in the open made Shiro self-conscious. They all knew about what he was before this, what he was with the Galra, and he couldn’t be certain they’d react venomously towards him or Allura if seen together.

Thankfully, she didn’t leave him with a public display of affection—they weren’t quite on that level—but evidently they were on the level for Allura to nod towards her cabin and say, “Take my bed. It is far roomier than the cots, and you probably miss a decent mattress.”

Her voice was quiet, and he hoped that it was some weird mispronunciation of words she just uttered. _Sleep in Allura’s bed…?_ Before he could finish the thought, the red in his face hardly gone, she tacked on, “Don’t worry—I have work to do so I will not disturb you.”

“I… don’t think that’s appropriate,” he confessed. “Or professional.”

“Who said anything about appropriate or professional?” she argued, and he half expected her to shout it like she normally would. “Or would you prefer a cot over a mattress?”

 _Well, not particularly_ , he admitted to himself. “I’m fine with the cot, but thank you for the offer. Maybe another time,” he suggested, and she responded with an annoyed groan and tugged his arm when he tried to make a getaway.

“Take the damn bed, if only for tonight. And if it suits you, it is reason to come back again,” she told him, releasing his arm and striding towards the cabin. She expected him to follow her, and while he could have argued the point further, he didn’t. Though, he kept his mouth partially covered until the point where he could rinse it out. It still tasted like bile—not that he intended to woo the Admiral. He loathed the taste and aftertaste of bile.

Allura’s bed was separated from the area he was used to occupying. It was past the table they ate at, and farther from the office where she worked. She held the door open for him, and he found the room tight—as most sea-bound bedchambers were—with a bed frame attached to the far wall, and the two adjacent to it. It was large, as she claimed it was, and the blankets weren’t quite in order as they would be at the castle. There was a pillow on the floor, and a painting bolted to the wall nearby. 

“It isn’t anything spectacular, though I see you are already thinking that,” Allura commented, but Shiro shook his head.

“This is perfect. Thank you,” he said, glancing briefly over to where she still had her arm extended to the door handle. She stared at him somewhat blankly, mirroring his unmoving position. Eventually, though, he stepped towards her and rested his hand on the nape of her neck. She tilted her head forward, so their foreheads touched, and then he pulled back enough to simply kiss her forehead. 

After a moment, he pulled away, and she released a sigh and these words: “Goodnight then,” before stepping back and pulling the door shut with her. 

Shiro remained standing for a bit, until his stillness suddenly made him aware of the moving ship, and his past nausea. His breath was minty now, thankfully, but his stomach was certainly not a pleasant thing to have at the moment. With a heavy sigh, he sat on the edge of Allura’s bed, hesitantly, and glanced at the painting again.

The painting was of a man, older, with a familiar complexion: Allura’s complexion. His hair was just as shockingly white as her’s, which contrasted greatly against his even, dark skin and firm, structured posture. He had a uniform on, one that replicated the Altean symbol on his right breastplate, and his status underneath it. Admiral. 

_Allura’s father, Alfor_ , Shiro thought, staring at it for a moment longer as he gradually unlaced his shoes and set them aside. 

Her father was someone of major importance in the history of Altea, and the ruling prior to Keith. He played a large part in the Queen’s success, and in her happiness, which improved the overall outlook of the Alteans. Keith’s mother was a strong, independent leader whose articulate tongue and intimidation tactics were enough to convince Alteans that she was everything they needed to outlast the war. That, and her exceptional navy and military. Admiral Alfor was of high respect among the people—a solid structure to depend upon, as Shiro viewed his daughter.

Shiro knew enough, based on talking to Allura, that after her father’s passing, Coran was charged with her upraising. Coran’s responsibilities were doubled by the expectation to aid in Allura’s path in life, and keep her safe all the same. It was difficult to keep an adopted daughter safe when she was out at sea constantly, away from Coran. 

_I will help protect her_ , Shiro determined, laying down and looking at the painting once more. _If I can. I can_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delayed reply! It's just a 3k chapter, not much, but I'm hoping to pick up the momentum here, and increase the length of the upcoming chapters. 
> 
> In other news: I made a twitter! Find me [@gurlskylark](https://twitter.com/girlskylark), and once I get it going a bit more, I'll probably post more on fanart I've made, and updates about writing and streaming in general.


	27. So Long

“Are you comfortable?”

“I am.”

Allura snorted, giggling as she said, “Do not lie to me. I can tell when you’re lying. Is it my arm here?”

Shiro couldn’t believe it was possible to feel so warm and fuzzy inside, and yet, Allura was turning all his thoughts and feelings into this. Blurry, soft, warm edges all filtered through her crystalline eyes. He was amused that she was amused over his bluff. 

“So perhaps it is your arm,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Arms are not exactly meant to be pillows.”

“Fine. Then lift your head,” she ordered, and he did just this. He sat up a bit, raised up on an elbow as Allura pulled a pillow down a bit farther, adjusting it so both their heads fit on it. She tugged her hair away, and over their heads as Shiro laid back down, and let Allura wrap her arm underneath his, and around his back. “Better?” she asked.

He couldn’t help himself. He was staring at her. “Yes,” he finally answered, and received a laugh in response. “You look beautiful today,” he told her, and at this she ceased her laughter to stare at him as if she didn’t believe him.

“My hair hasn’t been clean since the last time it rained,” she deadpanned. “I sleep approximately five hours a night.”

“That’s fine. Neither have I, in terms of clean hair.”

“It is _far_ easier for you. Your hair is rather short—except for this bit here,” she said, reaching up and tenderly stroking her fingers through the irregular length of his bangs. They were even more out of control since the last he checked at the castle. That was a while ago. 

“The last I trimmed it was… a week or so after you first left,” he confessed, and reached a hand up to thread his fingers through it. He then thread his fingers through her hair. It was long, tangly, and dry. He didn’t mind the texture much, or the length, or anything about it. 

“You trim your own hair?” she asked, and he nodded, gingerly breaking apart a few tangled pieces of her hair.

“Yes. I would trim the cadets in training, too. There were hair regulations back then, and I just… never reverted back afterwards,” he told her. “After we graduated, we weren’t bound to those same uniform regulations. Which meant we could grow out our hair if we wanted to. I did not—not much, anyway.”

Allura sat up a bit, breaking away from Shiro to stare down at him. Her hair circled around her like that of a lion’s mane—untamed and wild. He retracted his hands from her hair a moment before she said, “Would you trim my hair then? About this much?” She tugged at the hair near her scalp.

“A trim?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“That would not be called a trim,” he said, laughing as he flopped back down on the mattress and watched her pout. “I could give you a trim, if you wanted.”

“Yes, but this short.”

“That isn’t a trim.”

“Then one half of it? I have seen women with hair like this—I think it’s in style,” she told him, pulling back a chunk of her hair on the side, and slicking it against her scalp so it almost looked buzzed—but not quite. Shiro stared at her long enough to realize that she was quite serious about this. He wondered if Coran would have a hernia if he saw Allura with half of her head shaved. Thinking about Coran put a rock in his stomach that he couldn’t ignore. It was the effect of knowing how much someone detested him.

“I-I don’t know if that’s such a great idea,” Shiro managed, “We could go little by little and see how you like it—we can’t just simply cut it all off.”

“Yes we can. What do you need to cut it? I have a scissors over here—a towel? A bucket of water…” Allura started, turning away from him and swinging her bare legs off the bed. Shiro sat up as he watched her scurry out the door, and heard her rustling about the cabin in search of supplies. 

He didn’t want to get out of bed just then—that was the equivalent to agreeing with her idea. So he stayed there and wondered at what point she decided she wanted such a bizarre haircut. Had she been eyeing up his hairstyle for a while? No, there wasn’t anything fancy about it—on the contrary, not many men his age had white patches. He tugged at it just as Allura returned to ask which scissors would work best. 

When he decided on one, he knew there was no going back, especially when she was so set on it.

They went out to the deck after changing and looking somewhat presentable. Her second in command was conducting the inner workings of the ship, and everyone paused for a moment to observe their Admiral stepping out into the daylight, a mission on her mind. She tapped her finger against her chin as she observed them all before snapping her fingers to one of them and ordering a chair brought over to the railing. And the other, a bin of water. 

It’d been a little over a week since Allura convinced Shiro that he was just as welcome to her cabin as she was. And since then, the sailors noticed little change in the way Allura acted around them, but in the mornings they always saw Shiro leave her quarters. _What was he doing in there? Is he with the Admiral? Should we be worried?_ These were the thoughts on the sailors minds. And that day, when they exited the cabin together, they were concerned by the fact that Shiro had a pair of scissors in his hands, and a towel draped over his other arm. He looked both thrilled and conscious of everyone’s eyes on them.

“You should probably be more concerned about someone holding a scissors so close to your neck,” Shiro commented before he could even start. One of the men came by with a bucket of water, and gave them both anxious looks.

Allura settled back in the chair and tilted her head against the railing, closing her eyes as she said, “I seriously doubt the Champion had time for trimming peoples’ hairs.”

Shiro stared at her for a moment, hardly realizing that he paused until Allura flickered an eye over to him. She tapped his arm and added, “I’m _kidding_. I trust you know what you’re doing.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Fair enough. And for the record, the Champion wasn’t a hair stylist.” Allura laughed aloud, and her smile prompted Shiro to begin.

He doused her hair with cupfuls of water before dividing up the hair that would be kept, and the hair that would be cut. Allura’s second in command went to the cabin and brought out a mirror for Allura to use, and stood nearby inspecting Shiro’s work. He asked questions and Shiro answered them, and the fact that the second in command was also there eased the thoughts of the other sailors.

And then, Shiro began severing a foot of her hair off, followed by another several inches until he was skimming her scalp. The smokey wisps of her hair cascaded off the railing, and drifted over the ocean on the breeze. When it was all cut roughly short, Allura combed a hand through it and said, “I can feel the wind here now.”

“Now you know how I feel,” Shiro laughed. “Would you like it shorter?”

“Hm… a bit. About the length of your hair before I left,” she said. When it was all said and done, Allura’s hair part was signified where her long, elegant hair cut off. 

Her crew stared at her as she passed, and then pinned their confusion on Shiro, who stood with Allura’s second-in-command. He watched from across the deck as Allura said something to one of the women before disappearing into the cabin, one hand absently combing the trimmed half of her scalp. 

“You are kind to Allura,” the man beside Shiro commented, drawing his attention away from the closed cabin door. “I’m afraid you don’t know the consequences of your affections for her, however.”

“What do you mean?” Shiro asked, narrowing his eyes skeptically. “Are you saying it isn’t wise for me to be involved with her? As if I don’t know that already.”

The second-in-command sighed, and continued, “Not for reasons you don’t think of. The men have been talking about our destination—I’m sure you’ve heard of it, haven’t you?” 

_What does our destination have to do with…?_ Shiro started, a look of confusion rising his eyebrows. “What are you saying?”

“We’ll be in Galra territory soon. They don’t know we’re coming,” he said, “or what for. Allura was hesitant to tell you, as have the other men. Allura excluded, we weren’t sure if you were trustworthy enough for the details just yet, but I can see now that you are.”

Shiro stared at him in shock, and quickly turned his gaze to the railing where Allura’s chair was. They were going to the Galra. All the men, talking about the base on the edge of Altea’s territory, talking about their family, friends, their life before—it was because they knew what was coming. They were going into battle. 

_We’re starting a war_.

“Why would…? Why are we doing this?” Shiro asked. “It isn’t wise to strike so close to their center—so far from Altea’s Barrier.”

“That may be,” he said, “but they’re preparing for the war at the Barrier. With the weapons the Princess made, we can’t afford to let time pass. The longer we wait, the more likely the Galra are to start replicating our design. This is the best chance we’ve had all these years.”

Shiro remembered his weapon, tucked away in Allura’s vault, and with a start realized why Pidge gave it to him. It wasn’t just because of the things she said, but what she _didn’t_ say. What she knew, and he didn’t—she knew Shiro was going into war. She knew he would need it.

 _Oh Pidge…_ Had he known, he would have—No, he couldn’t have hugged her farewell. She probably wouldn’t have appreciated it. This was her goodbye, the weapon that would keep him alive. 

  


  


“You shouldn’t—” Lance started, and the strain on his voice was enough to bring Pidge’s eyes up from her rucksack. He was staring at her from over her bed, looking prepared to either throw something, or burst into tears. Hunk was there for him though, and Hunk knew, and Hunk came to accept it. 

“I know it’s tough, man, but… she’s a _really_ skilled fighter. And she’s the best person to teach soldiers how to use Voltron,” Hunk said, clapping a hand onto Lance’s back. Pidge’s throat closed up as she watched Lance’s lips quiver, shoulders tense until he threw his hands down and pushed Hunk away.

“You shouldn’t _leave_ , Pidge! It’s just as reckless as the first time you disappeared—you can’t—you can’t disappear again, Pidge. You can’t,” Lance cried out, voice dissolving in his mouth. He clawed his hands down the front of his jacket, as if trying to find a way to breathe again.

Pidge didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she gasped for air. “I’m sorry, Lance—I’m not disappearing this time. I’m going with Iverson’s troops to the Barrier. I’ll be with them the entire time—please don’t cry— _Lance please_.”

Tears streamed from Lance’s eyes before either of them could stop it. Hunk tried to put his arms around Lance’s shoulders, but the man wasn’t having it. He pushed Hunk away and rubbed a hand over his cheeks. Pidge abandoned her bag and crossed around the bed hesitantly. She was never good at consoling people, and the fact that Lance broke down was evidence of that fact. It also meant she was terrible at consoling herself.

“L-Lance, please,” she stammered, looking to Hunk for assistance. But the big man looked like he was crying too. “ _Hunk_ , no.”

“I-I’m sorry—I know we already went through this b-but—oh God Pidge, I’m gonna miss you,” Hunk blubbered, and reeled her in for a hug she wasn’t expecting. She had her arms pinned to her sides by him, and then Lance as he joined the group hug. She felt suffocated by their love, and didn’t mind it one bit. She heaved in a shaky breath and shut her eyes, tugging on Lance’s coat buttons as she leaned her head against Hunk’s heavy chest.

When she finally retracted from the hug to get a move on with her packing, Lance sat on her bed and grudgingly helped. There was a set of armor for her nearby on a stand, and though Pidge thought it looked perfect, Hunk went about polishing it with his usual, meticulous methods. 

She knew there were some things she didn’t need, so she minimized the contents of her pack. She kept space for Rover’s toys, though. Lance sniffled every now and then as a means to spike Pidge’s guilt, but after a while, she firmed her stance and kept herself from feeling guilty. She was helping Altea. This was what she had to do. She had to fight for her people now more than ever.

She looked at the wooden box waiting on the coffee table, and where Hunk polished her armor. It was almost time to meet with General Iverson.

“I just think… that I need to be with my people. When the war starts,” she said, ducking her gaze down to her lap. She had one leg swinging off the edge of the bed, aware that Lance was close, and had his watchful eyes on her. “I wasn’t there for them before, but I will be now. I know I will be.”

Lance rubbed his arm up and down her back, and for once his touchy-feely tendencies relaxed her, and calmed her down. Her eyes were burning until that point, and the sensation cooled. “And we’ll be here for you when you get back,” he told her. “But you have to promise me to stay safe. And stick with Iverson.”

“Yeah, yeah. I will, no worries,” she said with a laugh, scrubbing a hand down her face as she tapped his arm with her free hand. 

She got up and fetched the gun case, and, pulling a slip of leather from her armor stand, set to work adjusting the buckles around the custom case. Hunk helped her suit up, already having put on her under armor, and for the final touch, had her sniper rifle strapped to her back. Lance watched from afar, and struggled to smile when she spread her arms wide to show off her new gear. 

“Well? What do you think?” she asked.

“You look like you’re ready to fight,” Lance said, and Hunk laughed, nudging Pidge’s arm.

“She always looks ready to fight. But today more so than usual,” he commented, grinning down at her from where she couldn’t help but smile back. 

Lance scooted off the bed and swept his arms around her shoulders. “We’ll walk you out, all right?” he suggested, and she agreed to it. 

She whistled to Rover, who was on the other side of the room with one of the toys she left out for him. It was a gnarled bone, almost too far gone to be recognized as such. The pup sprung into action, and trotted alongside Pidge with the obedience of a war dog to its master. Most war dogs weren’t prone to playful kicks like Rover, so she was thankful for that—it made Rover seem less intimidating. She hoped she wouldn’t have to see him in action except for the incident in Nyma’s father’s house.

She saw worse things than a dog tearing into a man’s neck muscles.

  


  


Lance was nervous for Pidge. He was nervous for himself. 

Realizing that Pidge was off to war—for the second time—made him wonder the chances of Lance ever actively participating in the war. Of course, there was the side he saw—verbal war, debate, tactics and analysis of the enemy’s actions—but strength in words wasn’t the same as strength in fists. Pidge had both, and as soon as he convinced himself of this, Lance felt satisfied.

Sort of.

Sure, he always had Hunk to protect him—Hunk was both a friend and a guard, but Lance should have learned how to fight from an early age. Most university kids didn’t know how to fight—it was why they went to university, to avoid having to get swept up into war like this. He at least wished his mother would have seen the necessity in it, aside from basic self-defense. And in all honesty, those basic self-defense skills came in handy. He couldn’t forget the time he had to use them, but he didn’t have to worry about that anymore. Now with Hunk always there to help Lance when he needed it.

But Lance didn’t want to depend on Hunk for physical strength. It was why Lance was so eager to help Pidge in her training—if it came down to it, Lance didn’t just want to be an advisor. He wanted to be more than that for Keith. He wanted to protect Keith the few times the Lord General wan’t there to do so.

Pidge looked so grown up. Lance could hardly believe he’d only just met her in person five-or-so months prior. He knew so much about her before, but Princess Katherine Holt was… different. She wasn’t Katherine Holt anymore, and Lance was so proud of her regardless of who she decided she wanted to be. For now, he would support her and her motivation to be there for her people. 

He glanced over to Hunk, who was crouched down by Rover, scratching the pup’s ears and neck and hefty mane. “You take care of Pidge-y for us—I know you will, yes you wiwl, yes you wiwl Wover,” Hunk cooed to the pup.

“Hunk,” Lance deadpanned. “What are you doing?”

“Cheering Rover on, and also giving him one last scratch _because he woves my swatches_ doesn’t he? Doesn’t he?” 

Pidge hid her laugher behind her hand just as the General stepped up to the stairs where the four of them congregated. Hunk instantly straightened up and saluted the man, and Pidge did the same. Lance reached out for a handshake. “General Iverson, it’s good to see you again.”

“So soon, too,” Iverson said gruffly, his tense, dark face squinting at Lance. He always seemed skeptical of every word that came out of Lance’s mouth. The man wasn’t great with sarcasm, and Lance tried to sensor himself after learning that tidbit of information. “I understand the war dog is coming with us.”

“He is,” Pidge interjected, practically clicking her heels together when Iverson’s attention darted towards her. _Garrison habits_ , Lance mused to himself. “His name is Rover.”

“And you picked this up from the rural home?” Iverson commented, gesturing one finger towards Rover. “A veteran owned it before you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Its temperament?”

“Mild, sir. I’ve only seen Rover fight once before, but other than that he seems docile enough,” Pidge explained. Iverson still seemed hesitant to even touch the dog, Lance noticed, and he also noticed how Iverson’s attitude towards the dog affected Pidge. She wasn’t thrilled about the General’s misgivings. 

“Keep it on a leash. We leave in five, Miss Holt,” he instructed, and Lance cringed as he bit out Pidge’s title. It took a split second for Lance to decide the reason behind it: Iverson was reluctant to use it, as if _Princess_ was on the tip of his tongue. Though, he seemed to forget his place below the Princess rather quickly. 

Once Iverson left, both Pidge and Hunk sighed. “You don’t have to let him talk over you, you know that right?” Lance said to Pidge, narrowing his eyes at her.

“He wasn’t talking over me.”

“Yes he was. Purposefully ignoring Rover’s gender, demanding answers like that—you are not below him. Do not forget that,” Lance told her, being sure to hold eye contact with her. His instructions settled in, and he knew instantly that she was just as irked as he was, but they were both in different positions. Pidge had to depend on Iverson this next month or so, and Lance did not.

She squared her shoulders and chin before saying, “I won’t. Thank you for all your help—both of you. I wish you all the best with the company,” she added to Hunk, who nodded. Lance was reminded of the sets of tables, meetings, records, notes Hunk had stacked together in his room. He was in constant conference with their treasurer calculating up the finances for the company, the manual labor, the materials they used for Voltron. Now that the dreaming period was over, Hunk started to acquire solid circles under his eyes. It was a miracle the man found it so enthralling. It was for the best, Lance thought.

Pidge gave them each one last hug before moving on to find Iverson. They waited until Iverson’s men started out of the castle grounds and on to the troop waiting for them outside of Altea’s capital.

“I should… work on stuff,” Hunk said awkwardly, after all had settled and Lance wasn’t sure what he was even staring after anymore. 

“Yeah, same,” he responded, feeling hollow. He just wanted to hug something, and Hunk seemed to recognize the look on Lance’s face well enough to skedaddle. 

So while Hunk ran off, Lance went the other way, to the third floor and to the restricted area where he knew Keith was. Normally, one might assume the offices, but this morning Keith seemed intent on avoiding the farewell extravaganza for Pidge. “I already said goodbye to her, I don’t want to prolong it,” Keith had said, voice muffled into the pillow on their bed.

It was fair to assume Keith hardly moved from that position.

Though, instead of discovering Keith on the bed, Lance entered the room and paused for a moment. The room seemed empty, and after a split second of panic, Lance realized that Keith was in the recess where the windows were. His back was to Lance, and a blanket draped over his shoulders and legs. 

Keith didn’t seem to realize he was there until Lance was close enough to see the mug of tea between his hands, and picked up on the autumn aroma steaming from it. Lance nearly commented on Keith’s choice of drink before he stood in Keith’s peripheral vision, and saw the redness tinging his eyes. 

“Keith—” Lance started, and instantly he jumped. The tea sloshed, but Keith managed to avoid spilling it everywhere. After realizing it was just Lance, Keith blinked rapidly and turned a scowl to the window. “You were crying.”

“Was not.”

“You were.”

“I swear to _God_ , Lance,” Keith hissed. Lance stifled a smirk when Keith hesitantly scrubbed a hand down his cheek. Keith knew rubbing his cheeks would instantly give way to his lie, and while it amused Lance, now wasn’t the time.

Lance tapped the edge of the cushion, and silently Keith shuffled closer to the window, making room for Lance beside him. He snuck one of his legs between Keith’s, and wrapped it around to hook his foot under his other leg. The blanket Keith was sporting was warm and inviting, so Lance helped himself to a bit of it, and pressed his cheek against Keith’s, and then his shoulder where he could smell the tea when Keith took a sip of it. 

“Crying is a perfectly rational emotion,” Lance said. 

“It isn’t and you know it.”

“Fine then, be stubborn,” he huffed playfully, squeezing his hands around Keith’s arm. “You know, a wise man once told Pidge that we deserve to grieve, and that to love and be loved comes with the consequence of heartbreak.”

After a moment, Keith scoffed, turning his eyes to the window. “Don’t quote me, you imbecile.”

“But it’s true,” Lance mumbled against his shoulder. He admitted to himself that since watching Pidge disappear, it felt as though his esophagus was turned into a knot, and he knew that feeling usually preceded the waterworks, or was somehow overcome by sheer force of will to avoid it. “I didn’t know it was possible to love someone after such a short period of time but… I love Pidge. I don’t want her to get hurt.”

At this, Keith turned his cheek against Lance’s hair. Keith’s morning smell wasn’t associated with whatever his breath smelled like at the time he kissed Lance’s hair, but the texture of his skin, the warmth of his clothes, and the soft, unwashed strands of hair tickling Lance’s forehead. He loved Keith, down to the simple details like his unique smell in the morning.

“I don’t want her to get hurt, either,” Keith admitted, voice nearly inaudible except for the fact that his lips were at Lance’s ear, and he could feel the effect of the words shake his shoulders. 

Keith’s free hand went up to the tangle of his bangs over his forehead. “I don’t want to be the cause of everyone’s suffering. What do I do? _What do I do?_ ”

Lance’s chest seized up at the sound of Keith’s voice turning hysterical. A momentary panic gripped his heart—this was what he was meant to do. To console the King, tell him what he needed to do. What he needed to do.

After a moment, Lance pulled his chin away and held on loosely to the hand Keith held up against his hair. “We’re doing all we can to prevent suffering, but we all know the longer we wait to start the war, the more likely it is our side will see the suffering. Even if the Galra didn’t attack us, we would collapse. The population is too unstable right now—the refugees at the Barrier—we can’t let everyone in, so we have to make the world safer so they can leave the bubble we preserved for them. This is the better of two evils, Keith, and I trust that we have the best men and women out there protecting our families and friends and loved ones.”

“And if it isn’t enough?” Keith asked. “If we do not win? There is always a chance we won’t—”

“We won’t.” Lance tightened his grip on Keith’s hand and pulled it away from his face so he could see the moisture building on his cheeks, and the strained grief of his brow. “We won’t lose. Because Hunk and Pidge are geniuses, and we can trust them and their creation. Voltron will destroy every last Galra that threatens our people. Allura will decimate their coasts, and weaken them at their center. She’s the strongest admiral I’ve ever known—in history and in our time.”

Keith released a shaky breath, but Lance could see that his stress refused to be released with just a flourish of fancy words and convincing prose. Lance kissed his knuckles and vowed, “We _will_ prevail, Keith. You have my word.”

After brushing both of their cheeks free of tears, Keith smiled a little and drank the rest of his tea in silence. Lance felt tense, as if he should be doing more to comfort Keith, his King, the man he loved so dearly. He couldn’t let the doubt consume Keith. 

“Do you need something to take your mind off it?” Lance asked as Keith passed him the empty mug. 

He laughed and said, “No—God no, I’m not in the mood. I was just thinking about how Coran would praise the Lord if he heard what you just told me. Training you was actually worth it.”

Lance went red and shoved Keith by the shoulders. “You asshole—you can’t even compliment me correctly.”

“How would you recommend I go about complimenting you? Advise me on your tactics—ow! Hey!” Keith shrieked, shoving off the blanket and scrambling away as Lance took to using the empty mug against him. He was laughing, so Lance took it as a sign to chase Keith, even if he had fallen to the floor off the windowsill. 

Lance dropped down on top of him and abandoned the mug, tickling Keith on the sides. The man wasn’t all that ticklish, but if enough effort was put into it, Keith couldn’t ignore the sensation. “L-Lance! Get o-o-off— _gah!_ ” he shouted, dissolving into laughter even as Lance stopped the tickling and ducked down to kiss Keith’s exposed neck. 

Once back to normal, if a bit flushed, they stared at each other off the floor with the window lighting the edges of Lance’s hair and the floor around their hands. “Are you better now?” he asked Keith.

“I can’t say Coran ever does that to cheer me up.”

“I’m being serious.”

“Then yes, I am better now,” Keith answered. Lance settled back on his heels as Keith pushed himself into a seated position. He tilted his head at Lance, who, after a moment, mimicked him. “So you really think we will be okay?”

“Yes,” Lance answered instantly.

“And Pidge will be fine?”

Lance stared at him for a moment, wondering why his tongue hesitated before saying, “Yes, she will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have zero extra chapters after this, like I always have before, so whatever comes next is just gonna be... as I go along. This week is pretty busy for me but whenever I get an idea, I'll write the next chapter. IT'S GONNA HAPPEN I PROMISE.


	28. Altean Fleet

“I kept something for you,” Allura started, her eyes calculating as she surveyed Shiro’s countenance, and the way it obviously showed that he’d been staring at her until then. He looked away and cleared his throat as she stated, “Because I think you can handle it now. You’re stronger now, Shiro, and I don’t think—What I mean to say is this: I don’t expect you to use it. Think of it as a last resort.”

“What is it?” he asked. He wondered if she could see how anxious he was. But now he knew he could see him overcome that anxiety—there was too much of it to completely wash away. Even without her righthand there to tell him how close they were to Galran territory, Shiro could tell. 

Allura nodded for him to follow her down the steps to the main deck. His eyes strayed across the company on deck. His comrades returned to the protective gear—the fighting gear. Over these past few weeks, they all took to carrying a pistol at their hips, and, not too long ago, took to filling the barrels. Shiro taught them all, and was even tasked with assisting other ships in the fleet. He overcame his fear of transferring from ships as soon as he walked the plank across five entire warships, with the ocean dozens upon dozens of feet below him.

His own revolver was on his hip—empty—and he noticed Allura had one on her as well. It was the _LB_ model, the shotgun, and she had it fitted into a cover strapped to the back of her armor. On her hip, she sported a heavy belt dressed with a dagger, a bullet pouch, and the clasp that attached her sheathed cutlass.

She led him across the table and the couch bolted to the floorboards. He hesitated a few paces away from where she opened the door to her safe and entered in the combination. The heavy metal door creaked open, and she pushed it wide open. Inside he noted boxes stacked on heavy shelves, weapons clasped to the walls, maps, files, papers—and a box at the floor that she stuck her toe towards. “That’s for you,” she told him.

“I shouldn’t—this is your safe,” he said, shaking his head.

“I can’t move it from that spot,” she answered. “I don’t mind.”

He studied her for a moment, and how subtly she watched him. Her expression didn’t change, even as the realization dawned on him, and he scowled at her. “You have it here?” he said monotonously. “Why would you—?”

“The sorcerers already studied it and did what they could to dull the effects—enough to keep it contained in a box,” Allura insisted. “By the time they got it out of that training shed, it had already burned itself into a decent-sized crevice. Even our best sorcerers tell us that these sorts of weapons are meant for specific people—this one belongs to you.”

Shiro felt his insides boil at the thought of being assigned such a weapon again. He couldn’t bare to admit it, but, as Allura spoke, it became evident that not everyone was meant to wield Galra steel. “I-I know,” he started, and quickly followed up with, “But that doesn’t mean I _should_ have it. Allura, you shouldn’t have taken it for me.”

“Initially it wasn’t for you,” she confessed, and the shock on his face caused her to turn her gaze away. “I requested it before I even considered bringing you with me. It’s been on my ship since I first left Altea.”

“Then why…?”

“As I said, it’s a last resort sort of weapon,” she said. “If we were in a pinch and there was no other choice, I would have wielded it myself. But now there won’t be a need for me to sacrifice myself when you’re with me. After a few minutes, even wearing gloves, the pommel would damage my hands severely.”

Shiro could only stare at her in mortification. To think Allura would be willing to use Galra steel for the sake of her crew… it was beyond understanding in Shiro’s eyes, especially after scarring Pidge permanently by barely touching her with it. And yet, now he knew that he had access to it. It was here. On the ship with him. The thing that connected all his mental torment to land—

“I can’t use it, Allura, I can’t,” he said, breathless. “I don’t see how…”

Allura’s stern expression started to fall, and he felt guilty for feeling even the slightest bit of temptation to accept her gift. After a moment, she nodded, and shut the door to the safe. “That’s fine. Now you know it’s here, and if for whatever reason…”

“We won’t need to use it,” Shiro insisted confidently, mainly because he wanted to avoid using Galra steel at all costs. “We won’t let it happen, Allura, I promise.”

She smiled at him, though it seemed strained. He realized that she’d wanted him to be the knight behind the Galra steel, one of the few who could wield it against the Galra who made it. “Please, Shiro, something always goes wrong. Trust me on this—this weapon is our security.”

“Voltron is our security now,” he argued. “We don’t need Galra steel.”

Now she was just agreeing with him to avoid pressing him further. “I guess you’re right. I have a meeting with the captain of the neighboring ship, so I will see you later today.” She pulled him in for a brief kiss and he allowed himself to clasp his hand over her heavy, braided hair. When she parted, she smiled at him. “Don’t fret too much while I am gone, alright?”

“Alright.”

  


  


“Test which eye is your dominant eye by holding your hands up like so—yes—and position it over the high window up there, both eyes open—” Pidge explained, demonstrating it herself. She knew the archers were familiar with which eye was dominant considering they _were_ all archers. But, they seemed to follow along with everything she did.

It was around midmorning when Iverson came to introduce her to the first section of archery officers that would then disperse to other parts of the wall, distribute the _PG_ models, and teach their own archers how to use a sniper rifle. Iverson remained unnervingly close by and every now and then Pidge’s voice would break off at the sound of Iverson barking orders elsewhere. All the officers seemed to get a kick out of Pidge’s jumpy habits in response to the general’s voice.

She scowled at them after a smile inched onto their lips. Instantly they dropped their amusement. They were all older than her by far, with positions they normally would have assumed to be above that of a fifteen year old girl. She had to remember that.

“I know you all probably want to use the weapon today, but before you can use it you have the understand the parts that make it. As officers it’s your job to know how the _PG_ model functions in case something goes wrong, a weapon malfunctions, and needs to be repaired. The archers on the Barrier shouldn’t know every small detail you know—for obvious reasons.”

One of their hands shot up, and Pidge pointed to him. “Obvious?” he asked.

She blinked at him before stating bluntly, “The last thing we need is one of our own being captured, and telling the enemy every damn thing they know about how Voltron works. We have the advantage of surprise. That said, it’s your duty to teach the archers the necessities, and not the inner-workings.” They seemed to scowl at her, so she added, “Of course, we can’t avoid curiosity. Technology like this is bound to interest some archers, and if they happen to tamper around with it—well, personal discovery is different from demonstrative scientific knowledge. Any more questions?”

There weren’t any, so Pidge divided up the group into three, and each of the smaller groups came up one at a time to watch her disassemble the _PG_ model and explain the function of the parts, and the reaction that causes the bullet to be ejected out the barrel. She explained possible problems that might occur, and how to fix them, or if they can be fixed.

They continued lessons that week without using the weapon, but the following week they were each given a rifle and taught how to hold it. Later, another week from then, the officers disbanded and returned to their usual posts on the Barrier along with crates of sniper rifles heavily guarded along the way. Pidge spent that day fretting over the condition of the guns, wishing she could be there to watch all the archers learn how to use them. She had to learn to let them go. 

  


The several weeks following the disbandment of the officers, the admiral’s fleet approached the Galra territory line. Their warships bordered the edge of the free ocean, trafficking all ships that come to pass. Their fleet ranged around a hundred, spread thin by the distance and unexpected attack of the Altean fleet. Admiral Allura’s fleet neared ninety, but despite their lesser numbers, they approached on the horizon all at once, displaying their hostile message instantly.

The Galra fleet converged into a horn of thirty warships, aiming to stop the Alteans from their flank, but in turn provided a window for several of Allura’s ships to enter through somewhat unscathed. Passing through the Galra ranks brought upon them heavy fire when the rest of the Galran fleet came to the aid of the thirty-or-so that were under attack.

Allura’s ship was in the forefront of the carnage, and, after successfully damaging her first ship, Allura navigated the ship for boarding. With a start and ears ringing under the canon blasts, Shiro numbered the bullets in his hand, and inserted them into his revolver. On his hip was one of Allura’s cutlasses, and a dagger on the other side. 

Allura raced from his side, white mane gliding over the breeze as she leapt for a rope tossed down from a sailor up above. In mid-swing, she lunged, grasped it, and followed it through across the expanse of ocean between the ships. Shiro chased after her, vaulting onto the railing and off across the ocean, Allura’s men and women following suit across the deck. 

Screaming ensued, and the echo of guns going off sent the Galra crew scattering. Even with swords, none of them stood a chance when the Alteans were still at full ammunition. 

A spray of blood coated Shiro’s arm as he staggered from the side of a now deceased Galran. He swapped hands with his revolver and unsheathed his sword, swiping up the back of a man pursuing his admiral. He leapt over the body and up the stairs of the ship.

Allura swung her sword up in a curving motion, screaming along with it and the shriek of metal colliding. There were several men on the upper deck, and as Shiro aimed his gun at one, Allura tackled another to the ground and cut at the legs of another who lunged for her. Shiro fired, sending a cascade of gore over a startled and horrified crew member. It wasn’t until Shiro already engaged in battle with him that he realized that the crew member was actually the captain.

Barrel smoking, Shiro didn’t bother firing another bullet. His sword collided with the captain’s, and, the man already off balance, managed to push him to the railing. Shiro felt his aggression mounting, and the sheer, unadulterated fury registering in the sneer on his face. His strikes became brutal, and knocked the sword out from the captain’s hands. 

Shiro drove his cutlass through the man’s ribs, shoving him against the railing. The man’s hands gripped at Shiro’s shoulders and shirt, but as soon as he started tipping back into the water, his grip was lost. Shiro watched him fall several feet before returning his attention back to the deck.

He didn’t see Allura.

“Allura!” he shouted, running to the stairs just as he watched a massive shadow overtake the deck. Allura’s crew looked to it and ran from it, back to their ship over the planks that connected them. Shiro hurried around in search of Allura’s shock of white hair. 

“Shiro, move!” a voice broke out from behind him, and a body slammed into him, shoving him towards the Altean ship. It was Allura.

They ran for the railing, and leapt for the ropes her crew tossed to them. Shiro’s grip loosened, and he had to swing his legs up to avoid having them broken by the railing they passed over. He toppled onto the ground, and gathered himself up with a groan just seconds before being knocked down again by the impact that plowed into the Galra ship.

Another ship was tipping towards them, slowly but surely, and Allura commanded the ship be steered out of its course. Shiro stared up at the mast that came crashing down over the Galra ship’s upper deck, taking out the netting and tearing into the Galra’s sail. It crossed over the light of the sun, and sent him into momentary darkness as the crunching of wood and metal and screaming echoed around him. 

“So much for capturing that one,” someone muttered beside Shiro. He glanced back at them just as Allura whistled deafeningly loud, signaling to the east where they would steer next, peppering a Galra ship with shots along the way. 

The Galra’s ship had a metal exterior with pockmarks where the canons hit. Shiro could see the people running across the deck and when their canons shifted position. Allura would shout something below just seconds before everyone ducked, and the ship shook under impact. Wood ricocheted off the side of their ship as the Galrans tried to keep distance between them. Their ship navigated straight ahead, crossing paths with the frigate as they charged forward, heading for a vulnerable Galra ship. The spoke attached to the bow cut into the Galra ship, spearing it, and sending everyone into a tizzy to try and regain their footing.

Shiro raised his gun up to target a Galra soldier crossing onto their ship. When his gun went off, it vibrated his entire arm and not a moment later, the soldier tumbled to the side, dead. “Good aim!” Allura shouted next to him. “My turn!”

She reached behind her and grabbed her rifle by the handle. She whipped it out and positioned it, squinting her eyes as she targeted the Galrans on the other deck. Her first shot went into the shoulder of a solider, the other into the neck of the man behind the last. Shiro raised his gun to ward off another man coming onto their ship, avoiding Allura’s crew in the crossfire. 

A colossal blast shook their ship, and turned Shiro’s attention to the frigate coming for them. “Allura, over there!” he shouted, pointing to the frigate. Their ship was already turning, but not in time to avoid the collision.

The frigate rammed into their ship with such force, the deck slanted, and Shiro grabbed for the railing, clinging onto Allura’s waist as she continued fire at the other crew. She was barely holding her footing, until she at last turned her barrel onto the frigate and fired into the canon cavity. She took out one of the operators, and then another that came to check the body. 

“It’s going down!” one of the men shouted, and Allura clasped her rifle onto her back, gripping onto the railing as the ship rocked back towards the frigate before it rammed into them again.

“The safe!” Allura shouted, pointing Shiro towards the captain’s cabin. “Get the sword!”

“Allura, we don’t need it—” Shiro started, cutting off as his feet slipped out from under him, and he watched one of the crew members lose their footing and go spiraling into the ocean. 

As the ship rocked back again, Shiro grappled for the floorboards and took off sprinting as Allura shouted for him to hurry. 

He barreled into the captain’s cabin and lunged for the safe just as the chairs came tumbling from the side. He jumped over one of them and came to the combination. He inputted the numbers and shoved open the massive safe door. He worked fast enough to avoid letting it lock him in. 

The boxes in the safe went careening left and right, except for the heavy case on the floor. He undid the clasps and opened the box. He barely looked at the contents as he grabbed the sheathed sword and ran out of the safe in time to avoid being locked inside. 

When he exited the cabin, the ship was tilting towards the frigate, and Allura’s crew members were fighting atop the frigate’s deck. Allura was up there, swinging a sword down at a net of ropes. She cut one loose and tossed it to him as he scrambled for the railing. The opposite railing was completely shattered, dented, and leaking water and supplies. 

“Shiro!” His head was scrambling as he climbed over the railing and stood on the now flat side of the ship. Stepping back, he prepared to run, and leapt for the rope Allura swung out to him, Galra steel in one hand. 

The wind shrieked in his ears and flattened his white hair back. He was coming at Allura _fast_ and couldn’t slow down as he swung straight over her and released, tumbling to the floor just in time to block a hit from an oncoming sword. The Galra steel was still intact in its case, and succeeded in saving him this one time.

The soldier crowded him, swinging left and right, cutting up centimeters from his nose. Shiro unclasped his revolver and shot for the man’s gut. 

Shiro was given a short moment to strap the sword case to his back, in time to see that Allura’s crew was winning, though there were more and more Galra soldiers emerging from below deck. Shiro felt the weight of the Galra steel pushing him, taunting, teasing, wanting him to use it. _It’s my sword, it’s my sword_ — It was _his_ sword, not the Galra’s. Not anymore.

Shiro pocketed the revolver and grabbed the frayed pommel of his sword. He released it from the sheath and felt the heat of it across his scalp.

A man was coming towards him with a cutlass—heavyset and screaming. Shiro braced his sword to the left, and with one arc, cut into the man’s cutlass. The metal cried out, and the deafening sound silenced everything else on that ship.

The man’s cutlass, now severed, dropped to the ground. Shiro was amazed at how effortless it was, and how little resistance the steel showed. He locked eyes with his victim just before driving the blade into his chest, and watching it sink in and set the man’s flesh and clothes ablaze. The effect dispersed across the man’s entire form, shriveling into a purple flame that engulfed him whole before leaving him as nothing but dust in the wind. 

The effect of Shiro’s execution sent all of Allura’s crew and the Galra crew into silence. Shiro drew his finger over the flat edge of the blade, as he approached the remaining Galra soldiers under the deck. The ones who saw the display stepped back.

“Get on deck,” Shiro ordered, gesturing with his sword for them to emerge.

The Galra soldiers were lined up on deck on their knees, and they watched Shiro’s blade with confusion and terror. They all knew what it took to obtain such a weapon, and one that was fitted for you. It never burned Shiro—not once—which meant the Galra saw him fit to wield it. But he’s with the Alteans? It didn’t make sense to the Galra soldiers.

“How many of our ships went down?” Allura asked an Altean sorcerer that was apart of their crew.

The woman numbered her fingers and replied with, “Twenty of our own, ma’am. Twenty-eight of the Galra ships, but there’s more coming from the east and west. Our right flank has already met with them—thirty of our ships against their forty-or-so.”

“Forty-or-so? Do you have specific numbers?”

“Not yet ma’am.”

“Captured Galra ships?”

“Ten—four frigates including this one here.”

“That gives us eighty ships still.”

“Five are out of commission, retreating back to the nearest base.”

“Seventy-five ships then,” Allura concluded, and the sorceress conceded. Shiro surveyed the men on their knees before looking to the admiral. She was watching them as well, and then turned to her righthand. “How are our people?”

He listed off several names that were no longer with them, and Allura closed her eyes and made a motion of respect for the dead. After a moment of silence, she raised her eyes up to the sky and sighed. “And those injured?”

“Not many. Some bruises and cuts but nothing severe. We can keep fighting. Will we continue to the east?”

“No,” she answered. “We’re going west, inform the fleet there,” she addressed the sorceress then for making contact before declaring: “We’ll use this frigate and join the west flank—half our fleet will continue to the east, dividing north and south to surround the Galra fleet in the east.” 

“And what of the crew here?” Shiro asked, gesturing to the men on their knees. 

Allura studied them for a moment, but Shiro already knew what she saw there. They were worried about their lives, but not enough to beg for it. “Kill them. All of them. Their captain is dead, so they might as well be.”

One of Allura’s crew members took their sword and began slitting the throats of the soldiers. Another stood behind them when there was resistance, and would yank their head back to expose their necks. Shiro turned away and watched Allura begin dividing up the crew to perform the tasks necessary to work the frigate. Shiro had never stepped foot on a frigate before.

He became aware of the sweltering weight in his hands. He adjusted his grip on the pommel and studied the blade that felt… familiar in his hands. It was familiar in the sense that gave him comfort, and not the overpowering anxiety he expected it to wield again him. This sword was his, and only his, and he could use it how he so pleased.

Shiro cemented his mindset, and sheathed the deadly weapon. He wouldn’t let the Champion take hold of him again. Never again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't been posting much! I sort of took a break after writing this chapter, and wrote an ENTIRE fan fiction in that time. Like, started it and completed it within two weeks. It's called [We Will Be](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8234161/chapters/18870463), a Sheith pre- and post-Kerberos short story.


	29. The Battlements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-6WjOKqnszo&list=PLu6_FOgZp3eheTtQv0UQ7B4nZukeC1Hcs)

The megacity where the refugees lived became the central unit to protect in the face of the Galra. Terra was conquered as far as just fifty miles from the Barrier, and until then, Pidge was skeptical when she saw maps color coding the Galra’s takeover. They seemed to have formed a ring, a cushion, if you will, that butted up against the Barrier. This territory was still Terran, along with other small countries untouched by the Galra, but most of their people evacuated. The Galra never pushed against this unspoken borderline.

That is, until news of Altea’s naval attack drew the Galra’s attention towards the Barrier, and the people living outside it.

Pidge, while focused on the distribution of Voltron, went with Iverson where his ground troops were needed. His soldiers were trained to use the _TS_ and _HG_ models, and in preparation for the Galra’s advancement, they held their ground dozens of miles away from the megacity. Separate groups diverged to clear the area of any civilians living in the future battlefield, and Pidge opted to help with this effort. It meant getting far too close to Galra territory for comfort.

They evacuated five small farming towns—this took three days, and by that time, Admiral Allura’s fleet was heading inland, still taking Galra ships as they came and went. The fleet was still strong, though a fourth of their fleet sunk by Galra hands.

A different general, Montgomery, was with the troop evacuating villages when they first gained sightings of the Galra soldiers. It began as a steady hum, one that Pidge knew all too well from the first time she went into battle. This was extraordinarily louder, though, and shook her to her core. She was in the midst of exiting a villager’s home when the noise sent all the soldiers out to the main cobble road to investigate.

“Do you hear that?” Pidge called out to the soldier near her. He was motioning for a young girl to hurry ahead, but his eyes were focused in the direction of the hum.

“Yes—where’s the general?” he asked, and just as he did a shrill cry erupted overhead, followed by the commanding shout from Montgomery farther off, yelling for everyone to leave and retreat back the five miles to the first military post.

Pidge’s heart leapt to her throat when she recognized the flare that shot over them, and its electric purple blaze that fizzled near the overcast of clouds. Their feet were muddy from past rains, and as Pidge ran with the soldiers and the villagers mounting their horses, dirt kicked up and covered the backs of her legs and shirt. 

A contrasting blue flare erupted farther away, not nearly as close as the Galra’s flare. The sound wasn’t as deafening or striking, but Pidge could see the flare, and how it arched and flickered out through the low hanging clouds. 

Pidge skidded to a halt and leapt to the side of the road to avoid being trampled by the marching feet. She raised her thumb to the sky and marked the spot where the Galra flare fizzled out, and traced its trajectory down to the forests on the horizon. Contrasting it against the size and distance of the Altean flare, Pidge calculated the arrival of the Galra to be—

Three minutes from now.

It would take more than that to get back to the base. The Galra would be on their heels the entire way.

“Holt! Get your ass back in line,” the general shouted as he passed, grabbing her by the shoulder and shoving her back into line.

“They aren’t even a mile behind us, sir!” she explained. “The flare came from the trees over there, which means either they sent a scout or they’ll be coming—” 

As she explained the predicament, a massive crack erupted from the forest beside them, and sent the soldiers into alert mode. The commotion on the road halted as the soldiers raised their weapons—some going for the comfort of a familiar sword in hand, and others the revolvers, the guns. Pidge, sporting an entire body of armor underneath her _PG_ and _TS_ model, went for the revolver, and a dagger in her free hand. 

She raised up the weapon, balancing it her opposite wrist as she waited for the low clouds to clear out. The fog broke in a wisp, and the shadow that loomed towards them was hardly the sort of human they were familiar with. 

“Fire!” Montgomery shouted, and in a wave of explosions, the soldiers let loose, and the creature didn’t stand a chance.

They waited for the smoke to clear before realizing that a single bullet would do, as long as it was to the head. The Galra soldier’s helmet was now a bowl of gory soup thanks to a lucky shot.

Pidge’s heart was pounding against her chest, and she swore she could hear it rattling her chest plate. She looked to Montgomery, who stared at the effect of his command one last time before turning solid, stern eyes to his troops. “Get the villagers out of here. _Now!_ ”

Before Pidge could leave, Montgomery caught her by the shoulder. She hesitated as she stared up at him, and after a moment realized that he was completely lost for words. After studying her for a moment, he pushed her ahead and muttered for her to get a move on.

As Pidge ran, she thought about the beast that came for them in the forest. It was like Shiro always said: the Galra made their soldiers less than human. They made them animals, monsters, humans with murderous intentions. She wondered if her father and brother would even be recognizable by the time she saved them.

The hum they all heard was mounting, climbing, and vibrating into a roar that became identifiable as an army of heavy footsteps thundering across the forest. It started to synchronize with Pidge’s rapid heartbeat, and the frantic motion of her own boots racing over the dirt. 

The road took them straight back to the posts, but with the Galra on their heels, Pidge wasn’t sure the road would make them fast enough to escape. She prompted herself not to turn around, not to look back, not even when she heard a scream of someone being taken out by an arrow.

Montgomery was with her the entire way, running with his soldiers. The villagers were all ahead of them on their horses and wagons, and a scout was sent ahead to warn the troops at the frontline. Pidge just had to keep her pace for another mile. _One more mile_ —

“Princess— _duck!_ ” A soldier dragged her down in time to avoid an arrow to the back, which then took out the man in front of her. She scrambled as the man fell forward, her feet galloping over his legs and arms. Montgomery tugged Pidge to the side and in front of him. There were soldiers on either side of her, and as she ran she told herself that she had to stay strong. She had to keep up. Just one more mile.

But then, as they emerged from the forest and into the battlefield, the Galra were on them. Pidge had her revolver bared and stopped for the split second it took to take out the beast from beside Montgomery. The empty capsule ricocheted and another shot rang out, clocking a soldier in the helmet and breaking the edge of the eye slits. They both went down within the same second, and only then was Pidge able to survey how close they came to the Galra army.

There were hundreds of them, swarming out of the trees on foot, no more than quarter of a mile behind Montgomery’s troops.

The few Galra soldiers ahead of the crowd came for them, and swung their mighty swords at Pidge as she flicked a capsule away and aimed for another shot. As she did so, Montgomery unsheathed his swords, and blocked an oncoming attacker in time to spear him through with his second blade. Pidge jogged backwards, waiting for Montgomery to catch up before turning on her heels and keeping time with their soldiers back to the front line.

There was no moment of silence that stretched between the rivaling ranks. The Galra advanced, and in an instant the Alteans were up in arms. Pidge broke through the ranks, pushed ahead by the front linemen with Montgomery behind her. She looked back as he was approaching the frontline, and shrieked as an arrow came soaring towards them.

A barrier of shields went up, coating Pidge in shadows. Several arrows hit the metal, and no one went down. They made it. For now.

Pidge staggered through the front linemen, gasping for air and wishing she had lighter armor this time around. She cranked off her helmet just as a countdown began. Their was a consecutive roar as soldiers went into place, and rifles were positioned. On the final count, Pidge clamped her hands over her ears, helmet dropping, and the most explosive sound of hundreds of rifles went off. 

Following the eruption, Pidge turned to look at the frontline, and how the silence that ensued was ringing and deafening and she realized that it was true silence. The Galrans faltered, bodies dropping, the stench of gore rising in the air around them. 

She was in a daze, hazy and foggy just as the low clouds enveloped the air above them. She couldn’t see through the ranks, but she could picture the carnage her weapon created. 

A hand shook her and yanked her back, pushing her through another rank of soldiers. They all looked and stared at her as she passed, but she knew not all of them recognized her. Not all of them knew her as the woman who made the weapon they all held in their hands. But she felt like they were all staring at her.

After a while, she realized it was Montgomery steering her along, and soon she was at one of the general posts where Iverson was atop a horse and surrounded by his best men and commanders. He looked absolutely furious as he dismounted from his horse to confront Montgomery.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” he snapped, jabbing a finger in General Montgomery’s direction. “She could have been killed—why weren’t you back sooner?”

“We were evacuating the last village,” he explained, narrowing his eyes. “And she didn’t die.”

“She could have,” Iverson hissed, now glaring down at Pidge, who stared up at him monotonously. “Your death is my head, got it? I knew it was a shit idea to let you run off with the evacuation group.”

“No one is responsible for my death except me,” she countered. “I am in charge of that much—the King would understand that.”

“Clearly, considering how well that panned out the first time around,” Iverson countered, and his insult sent both of them glaring. After a moment, he hissed, “On your horse. Get back to the Barrier.”

“I’m not going back to the Barrier,” Pidge shouted, voice rising over the count echoing farther off. She was about to argue again when the gunfire erupted.

Iverson grabbed her by the shoulder, pushing her towards an empty steed down the line. She tried to shake lose, but his grip was numbing. “This isn’t up for debate, Holt—back to the Barrier. _Now_. That’s an order.”

She pressed herself to the side of the horse as Iverson gave her one last glare before shouting in his loud, commanding voice that sent his soldiers to attention. Pidge sneered at him as she braced her foot in the stirrup, and mounted the steed. From this height, she could see over the soldiers heads, and count the flags on their side marking various positions and ranks. She could see the ends of the _LB_ and _HG_ firearms in the very front, and how the soldiers were lined alternatively to make for three consecutive rows of rifles being used all at once. Then, Pidge could see the Galrans, or more specifically, the hundreds of bodies they took out with just those two fires. 

But there were more coming. It wasn’t just the hundreds she saw emerging from the forests—there were _thousands_.

  


  


“I will be okay,” Hunk reassured her as they stood out on the courtyard walkway outside of the infirmary. Shay was working that day, just like every other day, and for lunch Hunk came to visit her with a surprise box of assorted healthy treats—among other not-so-healthy treats such as a strawberry glaze scone.

“I am worried for you,” Shay admitted, taking a seat at a bench and setting the box beside her. She looked up at him mournfully and said, “I know it’s silly—you are safer here than on the battlefield, but I worry nonetheless.”

“It isn’t silly,” he said, sitting next to her. “When I was a cadet I had to fight, but now that I am here, in the castle, I don’t… see as much action. It’s fair to assume I have lost my edge.”

“That doesn’t ease my worries at all,” she said with a light laugh. “Are you trying to make me worry more?”

“Well, not intentionally,” he confessed. “But I am sure I’ll be okay, should anything happen here. Lance and I will be okay.”

Shay smiled at him before taking a bite of her sourdough bread sandwich. “That’s good to hear. Tell him I say hello when you go back to work.” Hunk agreed to it, sitting beside her now with his hands clasped on his lap. As he watched a patient walk the pathway in front of them, Shay patted him comfortingly on the arm. “Lance is a good friend, I am sure he appreciates your work.”

Hunk laughed, though for some reason it felt strained in the back of his throat. “Ha, sure—tell _him_ that.”

Shay threw her head back and laughed, and lost her cap doing so. Hunk reached back behind the bench and swept it up off of the bush it was caught on. She plucked it out of his hands, saying, “Thanks—I forgot my clip for it today. This is the third time my cap’s fallen off.”

“It gives me a chance to be a gentlemen though and fetch it for you,” he replied, and the both of them blushed profusely, and Shay hid her goofy grin behind her sandwich. 

After Shay finished lunch, Hunk took the empty box and left her to return to work. He deposited the dishes in the kitchen sink area before heading off to hunt down Lance. For the past few days, Lance rarely spent a second away from Keith, so wherever Hunk knew Keith was, he would find Lance in tow.

He found them in Keith’s offices where he came upon a group of people outside and inside the room. There was a constant murmur of talking, and, wherever possible, Coran’s voice rose above them all. Hunk recognized the Lord General among them, though his men were out at their usual posts outside the room. They all nodded to Hunk as he passed in confusion. 

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“The war started this morning,”one of the guards explained. “The sorcerers have been in there all day with updates on the battle.”

Hunk’s chest seized up. Of course, this was inevitable, but it didn’t stop his anxiety from spiking. The war. It was talked about for years before now, and it was actually happening. They were in war, and people were dying, and Hunk had a job to do. He had to protect Lance—the King’s future advisor. Lance would one day be in Coran’s position now, orchestrating chaos into structure. 

Hunk stepped into the hall where he realized Keith’s office wasn’t even in use—they were all in a separate, larger conference room where the sorcerers the guards talked of were seen sitting at the table writing frantically, checking their communication devices, and relaying messages to the others. Coran was jumping from person to person, and Hunk found Lance doing the same, leaning in and reading messages along with asking questions or orders to return back to the senders. Hunk stepped into the room unnoticed, the Lord General following close behind. 

Keith was the first to notice Hunk, and walked over to stand alongside him and his Lord General. Hunk murmured his surprise, having found them all here when he hardly knew that the war started. “It was abrupt, yes,” Keith agreed thoughtfully. “Allura’s fleet has actually been attacking the Galra border control for the past half day, and by noon they should be moving in to bomb the coast. We’ll be sending a fleet of twenty ships supplying soldiers and artillery for a land attack.”

“Incredible,” Hunk mused. “And the Barrier?”

“The Galra began attacking just moments ago—you came in perfect timing,” Keith said, pointing to the end of the table where a sorceress was marking portions of a map. Hunk recognized the map, and where the Galra territory was color coded in purple, just beyond the Barrier walls. “The initial attack using the firearms worked—we have the upper hand for now, but the familiars are picking up Galra troops by the thousands.”

Keith’s voice wavered then, and he pursed his lips, knuckles against his chin. Hunk’s mouth went dry.

“How many would you say?”

The Lord General answered with, “Fourteen thousand.”

Hunk blinked in astonishment, all feeling in his face dissipating. He couldn’t even control how terrified he looked. “And—and how many do we have?”

“Total? Fifteen thousand seven hundred, but it’s been spread out between the military, navy, and the Barrier guard,” he explained. “We have only nine thousand against the Galra troops on the ground.”

“Christ,” Hunk muttered. “Did we know this going in?”

“We knew,” Keith murmured. “But they have the advantage of using any person they want so long as they mutilate their mental states. We predict that half of the Galra militia are unwilling victims who lost their minds to the Galran druids.”

Hunk loathed the sorcerers that worked for Zarkon—the druids, they called themselves. It was their fault Shiro was the way he was now. It was their fault all those unwilling victims became mindless creatures for the Galra to toss into battle. Hunk wished there was a way to reverse the effects, but nothing was found. The effects were irreversible, and it was a miracle Shiro was even able to break out before he became too lost. 

Though, Champions seemed to be treated differently from the numberless supply of soldiers.

“And with the five thousand-plus Voltron weapons being distributed,” Hunk started, “we already have an advantage, right? That’s five thousand more weapons than we had before, and better quality as well.”

“Yes, but it will take more than five thousand firearms to take out fourteen thousand men.”

“If every bullet hit a Galra, each gun would only have to be fired three times,” Hunk countered.

“It’s not that easy, Hunk—and not every soldier is given a gun. Not all of them were given training,” the Lord General corrected. “But yes, the fact that we have Voltron does give us an advantage—”

Just then one of the sorcerers raised a hand to Keith, “What is it?” he asked, stepping over.

“It’s Miss Holt, sir,” she said, instantly drawing Hunk’s attention, and Lance and Coran from across the room. “The section of the Barrier she was in was compromised by a Galran spy.”

“ _Compromised?_ ” Keith repeated. “What do you mean?”

“He killed a large majority of the archers there before—”

  


  


Before Pidge could move from her panic-stricken state, the beast’s eyes locked on her. The carnage around them was of a magnitude she could hardly fathom—blood and gore, guts and flesh oozed across the stone battlements, the windows the archers once aimed through. There were only two terrified soldiers left with Pidge, and she knew they wanted to run—she _would have_ run, had her legs been functioning. 

She tried to form the words for them to go, _run_ when she couldn’t, but then the beast released a terrific, rumbling snarl before charging at them, dropping the body of one archer.

“Get back!” one of the soldiers shouted, pushing an arm in front of Pidge and thrusting her away, just as the beast exposed its maw, teeth and all, and clamped onto the torso of the soldier. Pidge shrieked, the thrust enough to trigger her arm up, her rifle raised, and the eyepiece to focus blindly on its target.

The second soldier hacked his blade into the beast’s back and fired with the other, sending a spray of bloody gore against his armor. The beast roared, and it seemed to shake Pidge’s very boots.

She fired again, and again, until the beast took one last lash out at them before staggering to the side. The soldier’s shoulder became caught on the beast’s claws, and dragged him forward, nearly over the ledge. Pidge grabbed for his legs, holding him back from being taken with the fall. 

The floor was slick and Pidge tripped over her feet and crashed against the separated torso of an archer. She scrambled away, hands now covered with the slimy, coagulated blood. The soldier collapsed with her, against the wall, hissing over the mangled mess of his shoulder. “Wh-Where’s the first aid kit?” Pidge demanded, getting to her feet. 

“It’s n-no use,” he gasped, panting and sweating droplets of red where the blood splattered over half his face. “Goddamn, it _hurts—_ ”

“I-I can help!” Pidge cried, getting to her feet and running for the first place she could think of—the coverage of the battlement, a floor down. There was a chest full of backup medical supplies—

She nearly made it when the soldier cried out behind her. She whirled around, raising her weapon. It was a fading cry, and one that was cut off with a hiss and squelch Pidge could never forget. _Galra steel_.

The figure was perched in one of the archer windows, and rose when Pidge aimed her rifle at them. She clicked the safety off, but something made her pause. 

The light created a white glow around the person’s figure, until he leapt from the window and landed in a patch of dry blood, wiping the back of his hand under his nose. Pidge’s brain screamed for her to _shoot, dammit!_ but her body froze again. And this time, every part of her trembled with grief and terror and the horror of metallic fumes rising in her nostrils.

“Look who I’ve found,” he drawled, blade screeching across the floor as he approached, sinister and lean like a feral cat. Pidge staggered back, clinging to the gun for dear life. “Guess who, _sis_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am YODELING.


	30. Take A Shot

“ _Matt_ ,” Pidge breathed, the air in her lungs sweeping out of her with the single word that made her entire countenance crumble. She stared at him in dismay, tense and guarded as he approached. Her eyes locked with the Galra steel blade in his hands, and the strange shape it took—almost like that of a scythe. 

The whites of his eyes overtook his irises, and the purplish-red seeped in, creating a faint glow she recognized from the Champion. _Matt_ , she mused dreadfully, a whine escaping her lips as she backed away, gun still raised, even as he came so close as to let the barrel of it press against his chest. 

“My darling little sister,” he said, lips curling up into a smile. It was a smile that normally would have been genuine, had his eyes not been so mocking. “Oh how you’ve changed.”

“D-Don’t—” she started, but stopped herself. Don’t _what?_ Don’t talk? Don’t come closer? Don’t _look at me like that_ —

He raised a hand, and clasped the barrel, keeping it firm to his chest. As his fingers came around it, she winced at the sound it made. Metal on metal. She dared not look, _Don’t look, don’t do it_ —

His hand, unlike Shiro’s, was clearly not human. It was, as Pidge feared, worse than she thought. It had the shape of a human hand, but the exterior was entirely wrong. It was as if someone had replaced his flesh with metal armor— _sharp_ metal armor, displaying the spikes across his knuckles, and sharp, menacing claws where his fingers once were. 

It didn’t even stop there. It went all the way up his arm, down his other arm, climbing up to the line circling his neck. He… he wasn’t…

Before she could stop it, the tears were welling up in her eyes. “M-Matt, I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “I’m so sorry—”

Suddenly the gun jerked forward, and she was practically chest-to-chest with Matthew. He held the gun off to the side, the heat of the Galra steel pulsing against Pidge’s legs, even this far from it. His eyes narrowed at her, calculating. “ _Don’t—_ say that,” he hissed. “Where is he.”

She stared at his chest, trembling so terribly that she nearly lost the grip on her rifle when he yanked at it again. “Who?” she asked, lips quivering.

At this, she felt Matthew’s face lean close to hers, so his lips brushed against her ear and his voice raked like claws against her spine. “ _The Champion_.”

  


  


“Shiro, now!” Allura shouted from below, and after a moment’s hesitation, he took the leap.

The rope’s slack dropped him dozens of feet, swinging across the edge of a ship with his sword extended. The blade sliced through the heavy material of the Galra ship like butter, dragging ash and fire across the hull. The flames began to eat away at the ship’s side as it jarred Allura’s ship, running its bow into the side. The rope swung Shiro on board, Galra steel swinging in a whir of purple light. 

The instant the blade cut through flesh, the blackened, burning skin began to devour. The ship jolted to the side, the damage on the side collapsing the lower levels. The soldiers who were once prepared to fight Shiro were now preparing for the collapse. 

He grabbed hold of a rope one of Allura’s men tossed to him, and let himself be carried to his ship. He steadied his descent against the hull of the ship, narrowly avoiding the wood buckling and splintering on the Galra warship. The shoreline appeared where the warship sank, rising up in ash and smoke.

Shiro was hauled back onboard and the Galra steel was once again sheathed.

They approached the fiery docks and disbanded once a path was clear for the soldiers to take the shore. The ships the King sent in released dozens upon dozens of men and women, armed to the teeth rifles poised in their hands, and smoke clouding from their barrels as they took out one Galra after another.

They continued like this nonstop, constantly on guard at the coast as the Galra aimed to corner them at the sea. The ships may have abandoned them at the coast, but merely for the purpose of guarding their flanks from oncoming soldiers. They were at their best, bordered by the sea with an enemy terrified of the handheld canons they carried.

Late into the night, Allura’s frigate came close to shore and sent her and Shiro to shore along with several other members of their crew. Allura’s second in command remained on board with the other crew members, and saluted them from the dock. It couldn’t exactly be considered night, so much as early, _early_ morning by the time they made it to the shore.

The land they claimed was safe territory at that time, and a campsite grew there. The Admiral’s tent was pitched up, and as Allura disappeared within among her fellow captains and generals, Shiro stayed just outside the tent flap with his hand poised on the Galra Steel pommel.

The soldiers who passed by tended to stare at him and the other guards posted outside the Admiral’s tent. Shiro chose not to make eye contact, simply for the sake of already knowing what they looked like. Most likely startled, intimidated, some even terrified. It didn’t take long for people to realize that Allura’s secret weapon wasn’t just the firearms Pidge manufactured, but Shiro as well. Shiro was her secret weapon.

A messenger sorcerer came by, and one of the men inside waved her in. The girl looked at them all, and seemed startled by the sight of Shiro standing there. She shouldn’t have been older than eighteen.

The sorcerer girl disappeared inside, and after no more than five minutes, the tent flap opened.

Light fell over Shiro’s silhouette. He glanced over at it, and found Allura leaning out, her slim braid falling over one shoulder. Her cheek was stained red still, from blood that couldn’t be washed off completely.

But what he noticed the most was her wide, pale eyes. “Sh-Shiro,” she stammered.

Allura cleared her throat, glancing at the other guards before returning her attention to him. “You should… come in here for a moment. Please.”

The other guards were trying not to stare, but if their admiral sounded like… _that_ , it was hard to ignore the distress in her order. 

Shiro came in, and found that same sorcerer girl among the men and women in Allura’s group. The generals and commanders looked grave, and he found some with a hand held over their eyes, heads down, hands on the pommels of their swords.

“What is it? What happened?” Shiro asked. 

Allura walked towards the central table, her hands clasped in front of her as she tentatively said, “It’s… We just received word that Pidge—Miss Holt—was captured. There have been rumors that—”

“How?” The word escaped Shiro’s mouth before he could stop it. He could feel the travesty of Allura’s news leaking into his chest, but it wasn’t settling in. Not yet. “How was she captured? Isn’t she—The castle—”

“She went with General Iverson to the Barrier. She was there to teach the archery officers how to use the Voltron weapons,” Allura explained. “When we started the war, Pidge was part of a scouting troop that helped the outlying civilians towards safety. She was sent to the Barrier after that and… the battlement she was in was infiltrated by a Galran spy.”

A sudden spark nearly lurched Shiro into yelling at her, but the logical part of his brain reeled him in. There wasn’t a point in yelling, not when he could barely find his voice in the first place. He merely stared at her, jaw tense as she finally turned her eyes up to his. He wondered if he was as pale as she was at this moment.

“Where did the spy take her,” Shiro demanded. 

“Shiro, there’s more to it—”

“ _Where_? I’ll get her back,” he hissed through clenched teeth, stepping towards her. Instantly the nearest general stepped in front of him, holding a hand to Shiro’s chest.

“Calm down, son,” the general said, and Shiro seethed through his nostrils, his lips pulling back as he shoved the general’s arm away.

“What else do you know about the spy,” he said, staring at the general before moving on to Allura. It took all his effort not to glare at the young sorceress.

Allura started slowly, “It’s more complicated than that now. The spy was Prince Matthew Holt, and he was in the company of one of the biologically modified beasts the druids create. The beast took out the entire battlement where Pidge was before Matthew supposedly came in. There wasn’t a single surviving witness in the battlement, but evidently the Prince and the beast were spotted going in. But not going out.

“In other words… we have no clue where he or Pidge are.”

  


  


“For gods’ sake,” Keith hissed, rubbing his hands down his face. He leaned back against the wall in the empty hallway—empty, all except for Coran, Hunk, the Lord General, and Lance. “I can’t _believe_ —Honestly, tell me _one good thing_ that could come of Pidge being fucking kidnapped by her _brother_? Do we know for certain that he had Galra steel?”

“The few witnesses outside the battlements suggested he did—but all of the killings were made by the beast he brought with him. Galra steel wasn’t even used, as far as we know,” Lance said.

“Well, there was _one_ victim, which is enough to assume the Prince has Galra steel,” Coran corrected. “Our concerns should be with how Allura will relay the message. We should have told her not to spread the message far.”

“By that you mean _not to Shiro_ ,” Keith countered, and the snark in his tone led Coran to scowl at him. “Face the facts: Shiro doesn’t go Champion every time something terrible happens. It doesn’t _work like that_. He _won’t hurt Allura_.”

“We don’t know that,” the Lord General said, drawing their attention to him. “Prior to the start of the war, I had the castle artillery checked. The Galra steel Shiro brought with him is gone. I’ve already contacted Admiral Allura to ensure that it wasn’t in his possession, but—”

“Are you _serious_?” Keith hissed. “Who had the bright idea of not guarding the safe it was kept it?”

“It was guarded,” the Lord General said, turning a sharp eye to his King. “Tell me if I’m being unclear when I say that I already contacted Admiral Allura. The Galra steel is in her possession, not Shiro’s.”

Keith looked to Coran, whose eyes widened a fraction at the news. Suffice to say his advisor didn’t know a thing about this arrangement. “How did she obtain it? _Why_ did she take it?” Keith demanded. “ _Why_ wasn’t I informed?”

“She has power over the guards down there, but as for the other two questions: I don’t have the answers to them,” he replied. After the moment of silence that followed, the Lord General let out a sigh, clasping his hands behind him. “We need a course of action on this now rather than later. We’ve contained the news as best we can from the soldiers on the ground… but that news will spread. We’ve had the battlements where the massacre occurred under investigation—but until they find where the Prince took Miss Holt…”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Lance said suddenly, staring at the Lord General before looking at the others. “The Prince took Pidge back to the center of the Galra territory. It may seem like the safest place to keep her from us, but Allura has already weakened their defenses by drawing in their soldiers from the main capital.”

“Let’s say your theory is true, about the Prince taking Pidge to the Galran capital,” Coran said, “What do you suggest we do? You know what they plan to do with the capital, right?”

Lance knew—they all did. Hitting the Galra in the epicenter of their power was a suicide mission, unless they were able to severely weaken them at their foundation. Their original plan was to infiltrate, retrieve the King and Prince, and decimate the capital with explosives.

But the knowledge that the Prince was so far gone… enough to take Pidge even after seeing her for the first time in several years… the King couldn’t be any better off. Lance’s chest constricted as he thought of Pidge, stuck with a zombie of a brother who cared nothing for her wellbeing.

He swallowed hard, looking at each of their faces and found himself focusing on the red tinge around Keith’s eyes, the purple bags hardly hidden beneath face powder. “We have to disregard the Prince, and if the King is in the same condition… then him as well. We have to assume Shiro was a one-time case. The people tampered by the druids will be considered enemies against Altea and Terra, as they always have.

“The King and Prince are no longer with us, and that is final.”

  


  


Pidge gasped, her lungs constricted, and her throat ragged as she heaved for air. She raised a hand to shove the person away, but a harsh grip pulled her wrist back. She stared at the boots of the man before having her head torn back by her hair—and her eyes locked with Matthew’s.

His eyes weren’t anything like she remembered them. His skin was peppered with specks of red and dirt, and his hair slicked back into a short ponytail. The expression on his face was stoic, cold, and was something she remembered from observing him the few times she attended meetings with the council, with her father and brother. Always putting up a front of collective thought until the front would become a reality, later on in life. He was too young at the time to realize it.

He shoved her hand away and went for the collar of her shirt. Her armor was stripped of her—she couldn’t remember when, which gave him access to her tight-fitted undershirt meant to minimize friction of the metal armor plates. 

Matthew yanked the collar across her shoulder. She winced when he yanked her hair to the side, forcing her head away. “What’s this?” he demanded.

“What are you talking about?” Pidge hissed, and broke off into a cry as he jammed his thumb against her shoulder. The scar tissue would always be sensitive to force like that. 

“I see you’ve already been acquainted with Galra steel,” he remarked aloud. “Surprised this is all you have of it. Any other new marks I should know about?” The comment sent Pidge’s eyes rolling, a sneer forming on her lips. She didn’t answer, and she was correct in assuming he didn’t want one in the first place.

“The mark of your beloved Champion,” she said sarcastically, squinting through her sore, black eye at him. He regarded her then with that same monotonous look that subtly shifted at the brow. A crease of concentration formed above the bridge of his nose.

“If you’re lying about the Champion not being in the castle—” he threatened, the grip on her shoulder moving up to her neck, pinching her beneath the jaw. She cringed under the strain of her skin, her split lip, pulling with the pressure he put on her.

She followed his train of thought perfectly—they were siblings, after all. The Champion being so close to her meant that it had to have occurred in the castle. The castle where the King would have had the Champion then locked up, under strict surveillance. It was rational to assume the Champion would still be there, locked up.

“I’m not lying,” she said, staring up at him directly. “He was with the ships attacking the Galran coast closest to the capital.” 

He stared her down, and the longer she looked at those pure, purplish-red eyes, the more hers started to water. As if she didn’t already feel like someone was strangling her throat right now. 

Eventually he backed off, and she raised both her hands underneath her jaw, massaging the skin he most likely bruised. She kept her eyes on him the entire time he walked away from her and to the pack hooked onto his horse’s saddle. With her hands free, it’d be easy to get up and run, but her eyes kept focusing on the slick surface of Matthew’s arms with his sleeves rolled up to expose the sharp metal shifting around the joint of his elbow. 

She quivered against the tree, trying to get ahold of herself as Matthew pulled out a map and studied it, flattening it against the seat of the saddle. The only thing recognizable about Matthew was his face, and even that had changed. The skin along his neck was entirely hashed together with white and pink scars, and one of his ears was shriveled—most likely the result of a hematoma. 

“Get up,” he ordered suddenly, the bark causing Pidge to jump. He repeated the order, and this time she didn’t hesitate. She pushed herself to her feet, and backed away when he came for her. 

Her back hit the tree trunk a second before Matthew yanked her towards him and swiftly tied her hands together. She didn’t fight at all. 

“We’re going to pay my _beloved Champion_ a visit,” he sneered as he yanked the rope tight. It caused Pidge to stumble forward as he started for the horse. “I’m sure he misses me terribly. Can’t keep him waiting, huh sis?”

They traveled by horseback for the sake of speed and time. Though, Pidge could tell Matthew would want nothing more than to tie the other end of the rope to the saddle horn and have her walk at a distance behind. He kept her in front, her hands restricted so she couldn’t take control of the reigns. It gave her time to realize that the metal didn’t stop anywhere on him. His legs were cold steel against the backs of hers. His chest, abdomen, arms—it was all metal. 

She recalled what Shiro told her about the gladiatorial ring. The druids replaced the limbs the Champion removed—Shiro’s arm was proof of that. It must mean that…

Matthew had his head removed, and so the druids gave him an entirely new body.

When she came to this conclusion, she felt bile rise in her throat and it took all her willpower to prevent it from spilling out. The sensation of the rocking horse made her nausea worse, along with the fact that she was surrounded by her brother’s false body. She never felt his breath on her hair because he didn’t have lungs to provide it with. He didn’t breathe, he never ate—all the food in his pack was meant for _her_. He had every intention of bringing her with him. He was confident enough that his plan would work that he prepared for her basic human needs ahead of time.

Matthew didn’t have blood. This Matthew was sustained entire by the goddamn druids and their twisted magic.

The skin he did have was pallid, like he was ill, but there wasn’t a red tinge to anything about his eyes or lips, cheeks or ears. It was artificial, the more she studied him and tried to figure him out. He worked by necessity, but with a flourish only Champions were capable of having. At short break he would dismount and mockingly bow to her as he helped her to the ground. He stayed at a distance. He only engaged in conversation if she had anything to say about the Champion. He didn’t care about the King—Keith—or Shiro, for that matter. He didn’t care about Voltron, though he still kept her weaponry with him, attached to the saddle of his horse. 

Her hands were only ever tied when they were on the horse—which was the majority of the time—so she could have swiped her _TS_ model at any point. But how would she use it? Could she use it? What would she do with it?

The longer she spent time with Matthew, the more she started to convince herself how she would use the revolver. 

This head the druids turned into a puppet was nothing more than a goddamn embellished doll. Matthew was dead, and this was just an awkward rendition of him. The only thing that connected them was a now faint resemblance, and the vague concept he had of a sister.

Her concept of a brother was very real, and it wasn’t this Champion.

When they were in view of the shoreline, close to the Admiral’s encampment, Pidge realized she couldn’t let Matthew walk in there. She couldn’t let him kill anyone, not anymore. She felt the horse lurch to a halt under his command, and she perceived his still, inhuman body remain poised behind her. It took a moment for her to realize that he was analyzing something. 

At last he came to a conclusion. 

Matthew dismounted the horse and after freeing the knot, let Pidge get down herself. He distracted himself with a small pocket binocular that he produced from the pocket of his belt. As she slowly lowered herself from the saddle, she slipped her hand into the flap of one of the saddle packs. She felt for her revolver, coming across other metal surfaces—the pan for cooking, utensils, several knives (one she nicked her finger on) and at last she found the barrel of the revolver.

“Take a shot.”

She jumped back from the horse, startled by Matthew’s voice sounding from ahead. He was still facing the direction of the military camp. The tents were visible from this far, secluded on the beach and flanked on either side by gradual slopes monitored by soldiers. They were far enough away to be nothing more than the size of ants.

Pidge almost thought she hadn’t heard him until he turned around, lowering the binoculars. Instantly her arm snapped up, her finger instinctually clicking the safety off.

Matthew faced her, pocketing the binoculars before letting his hands down, palms facing her. Empty. She trained the barrel at his chest, breathing hard. He took a step towards her, and she backed away. _Goddamn,_ they’ve been through this before. _Take the shot!_ Pidge screamed at herself, gasping with the effort to stare at Matthew’s chest with her finger hovering over the trigger.

In her hesitance, Matthew filled the silence. “You think a new weapon will stop people like me? Someone you can’t even _fucking shoot_ ,” he said with a laugh. “I imagine you like to call yourself a hero, hm? For making… these _things_ for your soldiers. But really, you’ve just provided the entire world access to another mode of killing. You’re making it possible for everyone to be killers, Katie—

“And you can’t even seize the chance.” He tilted his head at her, as if adoring a small, terrified kitten. He stepped closer, close enough that had she had the _PG_ model trained to his chest, he would have been touching the barrel. It would have been the battlements all over again.

Her burning eyes swelled with tears. Her black eye throbbed as she seethed through her teeth, clutching the gun for dear life. “Y-You aren’t my brother,” she hissed at him, spittle forming on her lips. “You’re—You’re one of _them_. A _monster_ and a _murderer_ and a fucking _druid experiment!_ ”

“Having fun coming up with reasons to kill me?” he asked, smiling at her before pinching his lips together into a pout. “You want me to give you a few more?”

“ _No!_ ”

“Take a shot then,” he said, blinking slowly at her, “ _sis_.”

Pidge stared at him, her eyes wide as her finger finally clenched tight enough around the trigger. The heat of the blast sent her staggering back, and Matthew stumbling. He clutched at the horse, gripping the reigns as it nickered and shifted away. Pidge’s mouth fell open in horror, looking for blood when she realized there wouldn’t be any. Matthew didn’t bleed anymore.

Instead, Matthew recovered with a smile, pushing away from the horse and coming for Pidge again. This time she didn’t hesitate. She fired the revolver again. He took a shot to the chest—again—again—

He staggered under the impact of a bullet to the shoulder, until at last she aimed for his head. In the split second it took for her to think, _That’s Matthew’s face—I can’t—_ he was already there, grabbing the barrel like before. He yanked it easily from her grip, ignoring the many holes now freckling his jacket. He stared down at her still-raised hands. “Are you done now?” he asked. 

When she didn’t respond, he said, “Good. Now you’re going to be a good girl and stay put. Stand against the tree.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me long enough, eh? Winter break is coming up and I REALLY want to finish this since I've finally figured things out for it. I really just sort of get overwhelmed around the climactic parts because when that happens I end up panicking and unnecessarily killing off characters. It's a real problem of mine XD


	31. The Ringleader

_This can’t be happening_.

Shiro lowered himself onto the chest in his tent, where he kept his armor and weaponry, and leant over his knees. He put his hands in his hair and stared down at the dirt, trying unsuccessfully to will the heat in his eyes to fade away. He felt his chest heave, and the next thing he knew he was muffling a cry behind his hand. 

He couldn’t let what happened to him happen to her. 

In the midst of his emotional breakdown, he heard his name called out from behind the tent flap. Instantly he rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes and cheeks, and not a second later Allura came in, saying, “I’ve talked to my generals and—and they agreed you’re our best bet in finding her. Are you all right?”

Her voice faltered the second she saw him clearly. Even in the dim light it wasn’t all that hard to see the red of his eyes. 

He looked away, a hand under his nose. “I am fine. I’ll get ready for departure as soon as possible.”

Allura stood by the exit, still staring at him until at last he looked at her. Just seeing her disjointed expression caused him to crumble. “I-I have to get to her before he gets her to the capital a-and—”

“Shiro,” she started, stepping forward as the tears started to spill down his cheeks, and collect in the creases of his smile lines, and the edges of the scar across his nose and cheeks. Allura came up to him and wrapped her arms around his torso. His uneven breathing caused both of them to quake. “You’ll find her. Pidge will be okay.”

His head was screaming that whatever the case, scouring the entire countryside would be impossible. He’ll never find her. She won’t be okay—

“Shiro, listen to me,” she said sternly, pulling away and slapping his hands onto his chest. “You _will_ find her. That’s an order.”

He stared at her in shock, but promptly realized that he felt far more collected now that Allura forced him to be alert. Hesitantly, he nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Good,” she said, her lips tugging a bit at the corners as if she was holding back a smile.

He breathed out, and in, until he no longer felt his chest shaking. In that time, Allura stayed with him, and helped him with changing his armor. She fastened the breastplate around his middle and over his shoulders, and he secured the gauntlets over his wrists. The entire time he told himself that he’d find Pidge if it was the last thing he did.

The sheath for the Galra steel settled into the clips on his belt, and just as Allura finished with the last of them, she hesitated. She laid a hand on his arm and said, “Did you hear that?”

He paused, hands poised over his belt as he craned to hear the sound Allura described. It came again—something hissing just beyond the tent. He could hear Allura holding her breath, craning to hear it come again. Before either of them could inquire about it, a voice broke through, and it sent cold ice through Shiro’s veins.

“Oh _Shirooo_ …” he taunted, “Come out, come out…”

Allura cursed under her breath, hand going to the revolver at her hip. Shiro yanked on the pommel of his sword, swinging it out of its sheath. The voice was close, and the owner of it flung back the tent flaps with a taunting, uncharacteristic grin on his lips.

“My dear, _dear_ Shiro,” Matthew chimed, tipping his hands to the side and letting the tent flaps shut close behind him. He circled his scythe in one hand, absently, and his grin never moved. “It’s been so long—! Too long, I’d say. And what sort of greeting is this?”

“He’s just acting,” Shiro said to the side, briefly looking to Allura. In that split second, Matthew swung up his blade, so that the curve of it just barely came within two inches of Shiro’s neck.

“I believe you’re speaking of yourself, hm? Give me the Champion,” he demanded. Shiro tipped his chin up, avoiding the heat radiating from the blade. Matthew’s grin immediately dissolved, and a look of sheer fury took over. “The _Champion_ , Shiro!”

“I’m not him,” he said, and with both hands on the pommel of his sword, he swung up the steel to knock Matthew away. “Where is your sister—I know you know the answer.”

Matthew seethed at him, but there was something off about it. There wasn’t any movement in his body, no chest to heave to begin with. It took Shiro a moment to register the state of Matthew’s neck, where it connected to the Matthew’s metal armor—but that wasn’t specifically armor, was it?

A near-deafening blast went off, startling Shiro and causing Matthew to stagger back. He tore through the tent flap, collapsing onto his back, and Shiro looked towards the blast. The barrel of her raised revolver was smoking. 

She held up the gun again, aiming for Matthew as he stood up. Shiro pushed through the tent flaps, scowling at the ridiculous laugh bubbling out of Matthew then. “Katie tried that—multiple times. It doesn’t take bullets to hurt something that isn’t human, darling,” he drawled, and for emphasis, knocked a knuckle on his chest. Even through the muffle of fabric, it was all metal on metal.

“Fuck,” Allura hissed under her breath, and after a moment, raised the gun again. This time Matthew ducked, avoiding a bullet to the eye and taking a lunge for Shiro.

With all the grace of a trained soldier, Shiro blocked Matthew’s attack, counteracting strike after strike that felt like a fire boiling through his veins. He remembered how the past Champion moved, how other opponents moved—he had the stamina of someone who ran for their life one too many times. So it was easy playing defense when before all his opponents were tuned in to playing offense.

It didn’t take long for Shiro to realize how Matthew got into the camp in the first place.

Within seconds of being peppered with attack after attack, Shiro lost his footing on a fallen, charred body collapsed outside the tent. He tripped and fell back, and rolled away in time to avoid a hook to the skull. Matthew went for his arm, and yanked on it, holding Shiro captive until—

He kicked at Matthew’s knees and sent them both to the ground. He switched the sword to his other hand, swinging it down with such force that it hissed against the dirt and sent up a cloud of dry ash.

Mathew swung back and stealthily gained his footing, remaining low to the ground like a feral cat. His eyes were wild, pupil-less and highlighted with the reddish-blue that made the bags under his eyes all the more prominent. After a moment of studying Shiro as he got to his feet, Matthew laughed under his breath. “You want to know something about my beloved sister?” he asked.

A click sounded to their right, and Shiro looked to find Allura raising her weapon up again. This time, Matthew didn’t have the advantage of Shiro blocking the shot. “Where is she,” Allura demanded, voice low.

Shiro studied Matthew’s expression. It seemed to be his only advantage when it came to calculating Matthew’s moves. Of all the people Shiro familiarized himself with, Matthew was by far the most well known. Shiro knew every small detail of Matthew before this shit show, and after it.

His eyebrow gave the slightest hint of an arch before he said, “You should have seen the state I left her in.”

Shiro could hear a retort on the tip of Allura’s tongue, so he interrupted, “Where did you leave her.”

“She’s as good as dead. I’m no longer interested in her though,” Matthew said, and slowly rose, his body still tense and poised. His eyes never left Allura’s. “I’m far more interested in who you’ve been entertaining lately, Champion.”

“Go to hell,” she hissed at him. “Where’s Katie.”

“Dead.” His eyes were unnervingly still, smiling growing as he watched Allura contemplate the truth behind it. Shiro himself had worn the same expression when he was Champion, and even he couldn’t tell whether or not it was a lie. 

Matthew twisted his scythe around, his rip tightening on the handle. “Give me the gun, darling.”

“He’s lying,” Shiro blurted out, but for some godawful reason he felt guilty for saying it. It meant Allura couldn’t shoot him, not when Matthew may or may not have the answers. It meant that if Matthew attacked her, Shiro had to trust that he’d be able to stop him before that happened. 

“I took it slow,” Matthew said, reaching into the side pouch on his belt. Allura stepped forward, her threatening glare warning him. He pulled out a switchblade, and on the metal dripped fresh blood. “I skinned her flesh from her bones—”

“ _Stop it_ ,” Allura shouted. “Just—tell us where she is!”

“He didn’t kill her,” Shiro insisted. “Matthew’s never needed to hunt before—he wouldn’t know how to skin an animal, let alone a person.”

Matthew retracted the knife, and dropped down several small objects instead. Shiro’s eyes flickered down to them, hardly processing it until Allura let out a horrified squeak. When he realized what they were, Matthew’s eyes were on him. “Kill me,” he sneered, grin unwavering. He leaned towards Shiro’s, arms wide and vulnerable. “ _Kill me_ , Champion.”

 _Suicide_.

The realization destroyed him like the objects on the ground did. 

After a moment, Shiro recovered, barely in time as well. Matthew was in front of him, and Allura was in shock. Matthew was on top of him, screaming, Galra steel abandoned as he landed punch after metal punch to Shiro’s face. Heat swelled and burst through his nose as he floundered to reach his sword over the sound of Matthew screaming, “ _Kill me! Kill me!_ ”

He grabbed Shiro by the shoulders and slammed him into the ground repeatedly. Shiro’s fingers fumbled against the crossbar of his sword, and then his fist was on the handle—and above the roar of commotion of soldiers from the farther reaches of the camp coming to help, Allura yelled profanities above him.

Her shadow fell over them and she slammed a hand against the side of Matthew’s head, grabbing him by the air. He was still smashing Shiro’s head into the ground when Allura shoved a dagger into the soft skin behind Matthew’s ear.

His robotic limbs fell limb in a second, and those lifeless fingers and limbs fell over Shiro’s body. Dizzy and bleeding from the back of his head, Shiro stared down at Matthew. Nothing poured out of the wound. Not even blood.

The soldiers who approached them halted not far away, staring in horror at the sight they saw coming in, and where they ended at. Allura stood up from where she crouched beside Shiro, and she rubbed the back of her hand underneath her nose. With her foot she kicked Matthew off of Shiro, and the lifeless body of the Prince rolled over and faced the onlookers. 

Shiro propped himself up and slowly got to his knees. He leaned over and reached for the objects Matthew dropped into the ashy dirt. His hands shook as he collected them up and studied them. At last he dropped them, numb all over. “They… aren’t her eyes.”

Allura’s shoulders sagged, her gaze dropping to the side, away from the gore. “The Princess is still out there,” she murmured. “Do you think—?”

“Matthew was thinking on his own,” Shiro said. “He wouldn’t have involved anyone from the Galra Empire in this.”

“What makes you so sure?” she demanded. “You guessed _wrong_ about Matthew killing her—!”

This caused a stir among the soldiers—none of them knew about Pidge. They weren’t supposed to know. _At least until now_ , Shiro corrected as he braced a hand on his knee and pushed himself up. “She probably isn’t far. Have the soldiers check the outskirts of the camps, and a little beyond that.”

“ _What makes you so sure_ ,” Allura stressed, jabbing a finger against his arm. “Tell me or gods help me—”

Shiro leaned into her, pressing their heads close together to whisper, “He didn’t come here because the people controlling him told him to. He came here to commit suicide. The Champions can’t do it themselves—they’re killed if the higher ups want them killed, or a new Champion takes them out.” He pulled away from her as the surprise registered on her face, and the sorrow tugged on her brow. He stared tiredly at the ground. “And I don’t know if Pidge is alive. Killing her might have been the final straw for him—otherwise he would have just come to kill us both.”

Allura studied him for a moment, and with wide, terrified eyes, she looked around at the ash and charred bones left behind in Matthew’s wake. She stepped over to the soldiers nearest her and laid a hand on one of their shoulders. As she murmured orders to them, Shiro stepped over to Matthew.

Matthew’s eyes were still open, looking like nothing more than a mannequin with how casually vacant he appeared. As if death wasn’t a surprise to him anymore.

  


  


A young sorcerer, at the end of the table, looked up from her communicator. She glanced briefly down the table, to where the King was conversing with his associates. She wished she could have the news repeated to her, but the words were clear enough. She raised her hand, catching their attention. After a moment, she cleared her throat and managed to say this:

“The Prince is dead, sir.”

Keith stood up a bit straighter, staring at her before looking instantly to his advisor. Lance blinked vaguely, not quite processing the news until he looked at Keith. The confirmation was there. 

After a moment, Lance spoke up, “What about Miss Holt?”

The young sorcerer gave a soft shrug. “I—She wasn’t mentioned, sir. Still looking, sir.”

Another sorcerer raised their hand, and provided the news of the situation. “They are unsure whether or not Miss Holt is alive yet. The Prince was killed before any information could be gotten from him, and even then he was unwilling to give up information. Afterwards his body was incinerated with Galra steel, sir.”

Lance leaned a hand on the table, looking to Coran. The man was standing farther off, and had been since Lance took control of the matters. The news was good, right? And yet somehow Lance felt exceedingly more guilty for insisting that killing a man was better than sacrificing everything to save him.

Hunk laid a hand on Lance’s arm, which drew him back to reality. He rubbed a hand over his forehead and said, “Tell us everything the search parties find. Lord General?” 

The Lord General looked up from the floor then, hands clasped behind him. His expression remained stoic. “I will relay the orders to the team heading into the capital. By this time tomorrow the Galra capital will be nothing but ash.”

“Perfect. You’re dismissed,” Keith said. The Lord General bowed to him before leaving the room, accompanied by one of the messenger sorcerers. 

Lance’s jaw ticked, and barely registered that his body was entirely numb. He hoped to gods they found Pidge before the capital would go up in flames.

  


  


“ _Piiidge!_ ” 

Their voices circulated through the open air, shouting between trees, “ _Miss Holt! Princess!_ ” It was dark now, and between the trees there were spots of orange and yellow dots, glowing from the torches the soldiers held, waving back and forth through the night. The trees rose up in bluish silhouettes, and in the dark Shiro could see the moonlight catching on the leaves, and the branches glowing a faint white.

“ _Pidge!_ ” he shouted again, cupping his hands over his mouth. He reached for the reigns on his horse, preparing to circle back, when someone ahead of him yelled something incomprehensible, voice startled.

Shiro instantly reeled his horse back on track, nudging the heels of his boots into the horse’s sides and picking up the pace. He approached the soldiers tearing through the edge of the forest, carrying someone from the underbrush.

“She was nailed and tied to a tree, sir,” one of them said, and instantly Shiro swept his foot over his mount and ran to them. “Like a crucifixion—I don’t—She’s lost a lot of blood—”

“Lay her down,” he ordered, and demanded one of them grab the aid kit in his saddle bags. In the light of their torches, they could see it glistening on the red soaking Pidge’s arms where it dripped down her wrists, curling around her elbows. Shiro was working on autopilot, tearing through the aid kit and ripping gauze between his teeth. 

Her armor’s shoulder pads had buried into her neck, from holding her arms high above her head for so long. He had one of the men wrap her neck gently, with an ointment applied to the fabric. Afterwards, Shiro propped her up against his front and looked up at the soldiers staring down at him, at a loss for words. 

Her chest was slowly rising and falling. “H-Help me get her on the horse,” he said, preparing to rise.

They helped carry Pidge, and they propped her up so she laid forward against the horse’s mane until Shiro mounted the saddle and held her to his chest. “Call in the others. I’ll get her to the doctor,” Shiro ordered.

He reeled his horse back around and took off for the dirt path leading down into the valley. The soldiers dispersed, running for the other search parties to spread the word.

Pidge was limp against him, head lolling and limbs weak. Shiro braced an arm across her front, and hooked his hand on her shoulder, keeping her close and jostling her as little as possible. It was difficult considering how the horse jolted them to and fro. They skidded into the camp, kicking up dust and sand as they went. He shouted for people to move, paving way for him towards the medical tents.

The horse’s hooves pranced on the dirt, sliding them to a halt where he then shouted for one of the men nearest him to help with lowering Pidge from the mount. He shouted for the doctor as they entered the large tent and searched for an empty cot. 

There were patients lain on their backs across the floor of the entire tent, so it wasn’t too difficult to spot the doctors and nurses around. One of them rose from patching up a soldier, and was startled to find Shiro there, and in the arms of his companion, the Princess.

“We need a mat, _now_ ,” the doctor ordered, and a nurse was instantly on the case. He brought out a roll and laid it in an open space on the ground, where the soldier with Shiro laid Pidge down. Shiro stayed with them, dismissing the soldier, and waited as the doctor took Pidge’s vitals and unwrapped the blood-soaked bandages.

“Needle and thread,” the man ordered, holding out a hand for them. He stitched through the holes on Pidge’s wrists, sealing the open skin shut and stopping the bleeding. Shiro didn’t look away for a second, though he could tell he was making the doctor nervous. Whatever the case, he couldn’t seem to believe that Pidge was actually here. He couldn’t stop staring at her because he hadn’t seen her properly since long before he left with Allura.

“Why isn’t she awake?” he asked suddenly.

“The girl was found half-dead with severe blood loss. I would be asleep, too, if I were her,” the doctor said, and his sharp tone led Shiro to shut his mouth. 

The doctor pulled the thread taunt and snipped it. “Be lucky the man who did this knew how to crucify someone. Had he nailed her through the hands, it’s likely her bones never would have recovered properly,” the doctor said. “She won’t need to have surgery.”

Shiro didn’t want to think about what the doctor insinuated about Matthew. 

The doctor applied an ointment to Pidge’s swollen, bruised eyes, and afterwards, reset her nose. The second he did, Shiro cringed at the sound it made, and then jumped at the gasp that erupted from her. 

She cried out, and instantly the doctor held his hands to her shoulders. She tried to sit up, breathing so hard that her chest convulsed. Moisture started to leak from the folds of her swollen eyes, and the bloody mess of her nose turned red. Shiro pressed his hands to one of her arms, wary of the bandages. 

“Pidge—Pidge, I’m right here. It’s Shiro,” he said quickly, and he felt her free hand frantically searching his arm, grabbing onto the edge of his armor. He could barely stand to look at her purple and blue face without wanting to break into tears, especially when she was crying as hard as she was. 

“I-It h-hurts,” she stammered, her lips taking on a sheen of liquid as she licked at them frantically, turning her head to the side. The doctor laid a hand delicately on her face. 

“We’ll get you medicine that will knock you out for a few hours. How does that sound?” he asked, and after a moment she nodded quickly, a squeak cutting through her lips.

The nurse came with a bottle of anesthesia that the doctor took into his hands. He uncapped a clean needle and, after taking up a small dose of it, he pressed it into the skin of Pidge’s upper arm. After a few moments, her eyelids began to flutter, and her breathing minimized to sharp, quick breaths until eventually evening out.

After a moment of shocked silence, Shiro lifted his hands from Pidge’s arm and cleared his throat. “Would—Would her shoulders be in pain?”

“Yes, but they aren’t dislocated. Simply sore,” the doctor said, and drew his thumb over the marks on her neck from her armor. “We will keep a close eye on her, no need to worry.”

It was a simple statement, but one that suggested that Shiro didn’t need to stick around if he didn’t want to. What he didn’t want, was to leave Pidge unattended. He let a hand fall over her’s, and soothed her fingers straight before he answered. “I’m staying here,” he said. “Don’t mind me—continue with your other work.”

Shiro sat beside Pidge longer than the doctor anticipated. He sat with straight posture, holding one of Pidge’s arms gently over his lap. For the most part, he stared at nothing in particular, at least until the several times people peered in through the tent flaps just to see the Princess for themselves. Each time they looked in, they met eyes with Shiro before disappearing again.

It didn’t take long at all for word to reach Allura. She came to visit as soon as she could, and it was only then that Shiro got up. 

“Allura—” he started, only to have the rest of his words knocked out of him by Allura slamming into him, her arms going around his waist into a tight, suffocating squeeze. 

She pulled away after a moment, and rubbed a hand over her eyes. “So she’ll be all right? She’s alive?” she said, moving over to look down at Pidge. Her expression fell, and then blanked before she could say anything else.

“She’ll make it,” Shiro said, to which she replied with a stiff nod. “Allura, she’s fine. The doctors knocked her out so she wouldn’t feel anything.”

After a moment, she positioned her hands on her hips and said, “I suppose that’s for the better.” She glanced briefly at Shiro before slowly lowering herself to the ground. She crossed her legs gingerly, her hair falling over one shoulder and displaying her partially shaven section to the side.

Shiro joined her on the ground, and took the time to finally unclasp his armor. He set the breastplate off to the side, where Pidge’s was. He unhooked the Galra steel sheath and set it slightly behind him, where his hands rested for easy-access. 

“I’m going to stay here until… further notice I guess,” Shiro said. “I want someone she knows to be there whenever she wakes up.”

The both of them remained quiet, observing Pidge’s stiff, bruised face, and the blood crusting on the bridge of her nose. After several minutes, a pair of footsteps approached, and the doctor knelt down across from them. “If you don’t mind, I have to change the bandages on her wrists.”

“Please do,” Allura said quickly. 

Without the bandages on, they could see the dark, ‘Y’ shaped stitch line, sealing the wounds on the front and back of her wrists. They were small dots, and throughout the days they began to pucker, until the doctor deemed them fit for removal. Shiro spent every day in that medical tent, waiting patiently for every time Pidge stirred and asked for water.

He helped feed her when the side effects of the pain led to nausea. That was only during the first two days, and afterwards she kept her food down and didn’t bicker when the doctor didn’t allow her to use her hands. She sat up against Shiro’s side and let him spoon soup into her mouth, careful to avoid the cut still healing on her lip.

When she was awake more often than not, soldiers came to visit her. With all the events going on outside of the camp, many of the men who came to visit were either injured, or cycled through the troops. Somehow Pidge managed to encourage them all to visit and share stories, so every one of them came with a tale or two. Many of them watched her purple bruises turn yellow and green over time.

Shiro left the tent on occasion, to eat or just simply walk around. Allura had to leave the camp two days after Pidge’s revival, and he wasn’t allowed to listen in on the messages the camp received about the war effort at the capital. In a few days, though, the effects of the capital’s downfall started to show in the ash gathering in the sky. It appeared to snow for a few days afterwards, and Pidge forced Shiro to let her stand by the tent opening to watch it.

She tended to hold her wrists against her stomach, and he didn’t realize it until he watched her stand at the tent opening, the insides of her wrists pressed together, hugged to her abdomen. Her heavy ginger hair was a frizzy mess, and yet somehow she managed to look serene. She always kept a pensive look on her face that seemed to be from the after effects of here eyes healing, still slightly squinty.

She liked to lay on top of Shiro when she could—just to mix things up—and ask questions. “How did you bathe on the ship?”

“When it rained, I guess.”

“Hm. When did Allura cut her hair?”

“I don’t know. We were on the ship—I gave her a trim.”

“So you cut her hair?” Shiro nodded to this. She hummed thoughtfully, her head lolling back against Shiro’s chest. Her arms rested on the floor, and she tried her best to keep her legs balanced over Shiro’s. “Do you guys kiss a lot?”

“Pidge,” Shiro warned, shaking his head. 

“I know, I know. I just wanna know.”

“What constitutes as ‘a lot’?”

“Twice a day,” she said, and Shiro snorted letting his head fall to the side so he could look at Pidge’s neighbor—a man whose lung was punctured and was still recovering from surgery. Registering that Shiro was looking at him, the man turned and rolled his eyes. 

“Then yeah, I’d say we kiss a lot,” Shiro said, still chuckling.

“What’s so funny?”

“Well, twice a day isn’t really considered a lot by most people.”

“Fine, then five times a day.”

“Pidge, that isn’t a lot. Are we counting pecks? Kisses on the forehead?” Shiro asked, and he tilted his head more to see the look on her face. She was pouting. “Allura and I aren’t interested in displaying our affection publicly, if that is what you are worried about.”

She scowled a little. “I am not worried.”

Shiro purposefully lifted up his legs to let her’s fall off the sides. She groaned, trying to force his legs back down, but he stubbornly kept them raised. “Allura and I are professionals. We won’t _kiss_ around you, okay? We won’t even hold hands. I promise.”

She waited a second before responding, and even then her voice was bitter. “Fine, I guess I can deal with that for now.”

He let his head fall back into place, and he stared up at the ceiling of the tent. They could hear one of the nurses wringing out towels in a bucket of water. Eventually, he said, “Besides, Allura will most likely be out at sea. We won’t be together often.”

Pidge hesitated, her jittery feet pausing on the ground. “Wait—aren’t you going to go with her?”

 _I suppose I shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions_ , he mused. He cleared his throat before saying, “That’s only if you don’t want me as your guard.”

At this, she sat up a little, scooting off of Shiro’s abdomen so she could turn and face him. She gave him a pat on the chest and said, stressing each word, “I want you to be my guard.”

He pushed himself up onto his elbows, staring at her until she suddenly lunged for him, tucking her chin against his shoulder, her arms around his neck. Her hands were limp, but he was sure that if it didn’t cause her pain, she would have squeezed the hell out of him. So he let his arms fall around her torso, and squeezed his eyes shut instead. Voice muffled against Pidge’s shirt, he said, “I’d be happy to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm guessing there will only be one more chapter after this, as a sort of epilogue that wraps everything up into a neat and tidy bow. You have no idea how close I came to making this, like, 5 more chapters long. I was going to have Allura kidnapped because of what canonically happened in the show, and when I realized that would be too excessive, I was just going to kill her off. But then I was like "No way, Shiro wouldn't be able to recover from that if Matthew happened to deal the final blow". 
> 
> I DIDN'T GO INTO THE DETAILS ABOUT MATTHEW because it's mostly implied and pieced together if you slop together Shiro's mindset every time he came out of the Champion state. Essentially Matthew was just stuck in that mindset while at the same time being forced to be the Champion, like Shiro but knowing exactly what he's doing. He was able to convince himself to take Pidge to Shiro instead of straight to the capital, knowing that Shiro as the Champion would be able to kill him and stop him before he did anything else terrible. He was suicidal in a body that refused to die by his own means.
> 
> I really want to make another fantasy AU, but idk what that will turn into. I've already done sorcerers, and medieval fantasy politics... what else is there?


	32. Epilogue

Pidge felt empty every time someone brought up Matthew’s name. It wasn’t as if she had a truly tangible expression—one that people could pinpoint and say, “Perhaps… we shouldn’t bring this up around her.” She remained stoic at every mention, and impassive in the face of it in meetings and council gatherings.

But before those, she requested to go home—to Altea, preferably. They received angry letter after angry letter as soon as the councilmen in Terra caught wind of what, exactly, Pidge was up to. As Princess, she ought not to be the head of a weaponry manufacturer—but technically, that was Hunk’s job. For now, she was just known as one of the two names that founded the company, and there was nothing the council could do to erase that.

It was surprisingly the first place she requested to stop by after entering the Barrier again. It was closer, anyway, and whether or not Hunk was there was up for debate. Shiro accompanied her as she marched through the open garage door, her gaze going straight to the officers overlooking the machinery. She could see a silhouette shifting behind the checkerboard of windows, so she cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted:

“ _Hunk! Get down here!_ ”

Hands on her hips, she stepped between the machinery and waited as the man scrambled out of the office and leaned over the railing to squint at her. After a second, Hunk threw his arms into the air, “You’re back! You’re alive!”

At that moment, the workers around them seemed to recognize who exactly just stepped foot into the warehouse. They gasped in admiration, shouting congratulations and greetings, and she accepted awkward hugs from star-studded workers, and the occasional, “Welcome back!” on her way to the stairs to meet Hunk. 

Shiro stayed close, cautious around all of the attention. The second they arrived at the bottom of the stairs, Hunk reeled the both of them in for a large group hug. Pidge squeaked excitedly, laughing as she tucked her hands up against Hunk’s chest. When he let them go, she jumped up and hooked her arms around his neck. “I missed you! I missed you!” she shouted into his ear.

He twirled her around, her legs flinging up behind her. When she was on her feet again, Hunk gave her a pat on the head and said, “I’m glad you’re okay. Have you been to the castle yet?”

“No, I wanted to see how things were going here, first,” she explained, and, grinning bashfully, added, “I wanted to see you first.”

Hunk snorted, still smiling like an idiot as he stared down at her, and then over to Shiro. The man lifted his shoulders as if to say he had no part in this decision. Hunk sniffled a little, and before he could get too emotional, he hurriedly ushered Pidge up the stairs to their office so he could so her his modified design blueprints.

The second they stepped into the office, she was taken aback by the massive banner stapled above her desk—not only that, but also the fact that Hunk had their sketches taped up to any available surface on the walls. There was a new blackboard in the room, one that was filled with dusty, chalked-up equations and diagrams. There were presents wrapped and placed on Pidge’s desk for her arrival. There was now a couch in the room, and regardless of all the wood in the room, the cushioned, maroon seating arrangement fit nicely.

Hunk waved his hands about, saying, “Tada! Lance thought the office should be more cluttered and lived in and so… hence the board, and the couch—and over there he put a painting. But otherwise everything is pretty much the same—”

“Oh, except for the ‘welcome back’ decorations,” he added, pointing to her desk. She walked over to it and picked up one of the presents hesitantly, and glanced up at him in surprise. He gave a small shrug, clasping his hands together in front of him and shrugging sheepishly. “I… well, _we_ thought you could use a little pick-me-up after everything that _happened_ so—”

“This is perfect,” she said, smiling. “Thank you so much.”

She forgot what it was like to have her family constantly badgering her with affection. It caused her throat to swell with some godawful affection for Hunk and Lance for doing this for her. She loved what they did to the office. She was so glad that Hunk was happy here, manufacturing his own artistic design.

Before she could stop herself, the tension in her eyes spilled over into tears. They dripped silently, and sent Hunk into a panic.

“Oh geez—we didn’t—I didn’t mean to make you _cry_ , it’s all right, Pidge,” he rambled, rushing forward as her shoulders hitched, and she let herself be consumed by his heavy physique enveloping her in a hug. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“I know,” she sniffled, shaking her head against his shirt. “I’m just so happy, is all.”

Following her visit with Hunk, Pidge took Shiro by the arm and he let her lead him out of the warehouse and to the carriage that would take them to the castle. She leant her head against his shoulder the entire way there, eyes closed, and if he didn’t know any better, he suspected that she was sleeping.

When they approached the castle, it appeared as though someone spread the word that Pidge was on her way, because they were met with a crowd of not only the castle workers, but the people outside the castle walls as well. Shiro nudged her awake, but she already had her eyes open because she could hear the crowd long before she could see them. She leaned towards the window and beamed at the sight of people waving to the carriage. 

Getting out of the carriage was still a struggle once they were in the castle walls. The gates closed behind them, but the castle workers were still around, holding up Pidge’s door for her, taking her by the hand and helping her down from the seat. Her feet touched down, and were instantly dragged closer and closer to the entrance. She felt Shiro’s arm around her, his presence against her back, and felt far less claustrophobic because of it.

The guards, though equally excited to see Pidge, helped to minimize the crowd climbing the stairs. She glanced back at the workers and waved before disappearing inside the foyer doors. Shiro dropped his arm, but not before giving her a pat on the shoulder. 

“That wasn’t so bad, huh?” he commented, grinning as she rolled her eyes.

“Definitely no—” The words escaped her in an _oof_! when something collided with her and sent them skidding, and falling, to the ground. Shiro was laughing, so it didn’t take Pidge long to realize what, exactly, took her to the ground and knocked the air right out of her lungs. “ _Rover!_ ” she screamed, laughing as she ducked her head and avoiding getting dog slobber all over her mouth. The pup was whimpering and crying, tail wagging so hard it swished his bum to and fro. She tucked her head against Rover’s fur and pet him until he calmed down enough to distract himself with Shiro. 

She barely got up off the ground when another force barreled into her, landing onto of her with his arms around her shoulders. “ _Lance!_ ” she screamed, kicking and shoving her hands against his shoulders. He clung to her tightly, his legs tangling with hers.

She was surprised he wasn’t saying anything, until she heard a distant sniffle, and registered that her shirt was rather wet on the shoulder. She stopped struggling. Not sure what to say, she defaulted to hugging him back, and he pressed his forehead against her shoulder, hard, and squeezed her waist before using one hand to straighten them out, sitting on the floor with his legs on either side of her. She laughed a little, rubbing her hands up and down his back.

“I th-thought you were dead,” he murmured. “You were _dead—_ ”

“Clearly not,” she answered. “I’m right here.”

“But you _were—_ ”

Pidge finally grabbed Lance by the head and pushed him away. His eyes instantly lowered, the skin there pink and his ears and cheeks even redder. She wasn’t all that great with people crying, but everyone else seemed to be great with _her_ when _she_ broke down. But she wasn’t the sort to wipe away peoples’ tears and tell them everything was going to be all right.

“Maybe we should get off the floor,” she suggested, and after a moment Lance nodded and rubbed a hand over his eyes before pushing up off the ground. Rover butted up against his side, and he absently pet the pup as he brushed off his clothes. He was wearing a navy coat with a simple-patterned undershirt, and from an interior pocket, he produced a cloth to dab over his eyes. “Geez, how long were you waiting to ambush me?”

“All day,” he confessed.

“I seriously doubt that. Where’s Keith?” she asked, and he laughed a little, swinging an arm around her shoulders to lead the way.

As they started to walk, Lance glanced over their shoulders to get a decent look at Shiro. The man was almost entirely silent, if it weren’t for the muffled soles of his boots against the tiles. “Speaking of… Keith, I mean. He wanted to have a chat with Pidge once she got here. The matter is kind of… sensitive.”

“You mean to say you don’t want me sitting in on it,” Shiro reiterated, and Lance affirmed it.

“Shiro’s coming with,” Pidge said, and she could tell Lance was about to object to it. “I don’t want to go anywhere without Shiro.”

After a moment of silence, Pidge was alarmed to hear Lance sniffling again. She looked over at him, and he quickly turned away. “Are you crying again?” she asked.

“Of course not! Don’t look at me like that,” he complained, pressing the back of his hand to his eye. She giggled a little and squeezed her arms around his midsection. “It’s just—That’s so _sweet—_ ”

Shiro chuckled, clapping a hand on Lance’s shoulder before stepping around to Pidge’s free side. She hooked her arm around his after letting go of Lance’s middle. Going up the stairs was interesting, considering the entire time they were essentially hugging one another with no intention of letting go. At one point Shiro lifted Pidge’s feet off the stairs, and she gasped in delight, swinging her legs before touching down on the second floor. Rover circled her and seemed on the verge of jumping onto his hind legs, but years of training taught him not to jump. So Pidge got down to his level and peppered him with kisses.

They headed for Keith’s offices, but before they passed the guards, Lance tugged Pidge to a halt. He gave one nervous glance at Shiro before saying, voice low, “Just so you know, I am completely fine with what Keith’s going to talk to you about. We’ve been talking it over for a little while now. So don’t worry too much, all right?”

“What is it? Is it bad?” Pidge asked, brows furrowing. Lance gave a meager shrug.

“I don’t think so. But that’s up for debate.” He offered a cheeky smile and a wink before nudging Pidge towards the doors. The guards bowed to her—which surprised her because for the most part, the guards on duty were often complete statues. She smiled at them as they passed, and she found herself tugging on Shiro’s arm to pull him alongside her.

Lance pushed open the office door and cheerfully announced their arrival. He swept to the side, ushering Rover outside. He told the guards out there to watch over the pup before closing the door behind them as Pidge took in the familiar decor of Keith’s office, and the man now rising from his chair.

Keith hadn’t changed much, which was expected, and as he skirted around the desk to lean against the front of it, she found herself beaming at him. She couldn’t help it. There was something comforting, knowing that he hadn’t changed at all, especially with their usual greeting. It was like any other time they talked. It was like she hadn’t been gone for all that time.

“You look well,” he commented, nodding to her as he crossed his arms.

“I feel great,” she said, dropping her hands to her sides. “What did you want to talk about?” Her blunt address didn’t seem to bother him, but he did glance at Shiro, and then at Lance. His advisor shrugged. She added, “Lance mentioned you wanted to talk privately, but whatever you have to say can be said in front of Shiro. Does it involve him?”

For a split second, Keith seemed to hesitate, and she expected the answer to be a ‘yes’. She was surprised when he glanced at his feet and said, “No, it doesn’t. But if it makes you more comfortable to have him here, then he can stay. Do you want to take a seat?”

“I’ve been sitting all day. In other words, I think I’ll stand,” she said. “Does it have to do with the company? I visited Hunk before coming here and everything seems to be going fine—”

“No. Pidge—give me a moment to collect my thoughts,” he insisted, so she clasped her hands in front of her and waited. Eventually he looked up from his feet and said, “I don’t expect you to agree with me, or anything of that sort. I like to think that I know your views on this, considering how things are but… with Terra in the state that it is, and the council prepared to breathe down your neck the second you get back… I would like to offer you a position here in Altea.”

He couldn’t seem to get the word out, and looked to Lance for help. The man, again, shrugged. “I seriously doubt the council will let me drop my status.”

“I’m not suggesting you _drop_ your status—just raise it up a notch,” he said. “I’d like to unite Terra and Altea, and of course there are other, more tedious ways to go about it, but the fastest course of action would be through marriage.”

For an instant she laughed, but quickly slapped her hand over her mouth to look at Lance, who gave her a big ass smile she found hard to believe was genuine. Shocked, she said, “Wait— _seriously_? You’re, like, what? Six years older than me?”

Keith rolled his eyes. “I’m not suggesting it be a traditional marriage. Everything considered, it’s impossible for me to marry Lance and advance the royal bloodline. We wouldn’t… you know, _consummate_ the marriage straight away. It’d only be when you’re ready or willing to have a child. That could be five, ten, _fifteen_ years away.”

Pidge stared at him, unsure why she was feeling both horrified and relieved. She twisted a hand up around her wrist, forgetting about the scars there as she scratched at them anxiously. A look at Lance told her exactly what she looked like then. Terrified. Conflicted.

He stepped forward patiently, reaching a hand for her shoulder. “Nothing would change—you’d have your own suite, you’d live here, like you have been. And you could still work with Hunk on the company.”

“For the most part, you would have the true title of a queen, but a faux title of a wife,” Keith added, drawing Pidge’s attention back to him. After a slight pause, he continued: “And I don’t mean to be rude, but I highly doubt the council could set you up with a better deal than this. You _are_ expected to get married at some point in your life, and it sucks, but that’s something that comes with being royalty.”

She breathed out shakily and accepted the gentle squeeze Lance gave her around the shoulders. She looked up at him and said, “And you’re really okay with this?”

“Pff, duh. I’m all about weddings,” he said, winking at Keith, who then rolled his eyes, but smiled anyway.

Pidge stared at them both before saying, “Could I think on it for a few days?”

“Take all the time you need,” Keith said. “I highly doubt I’m going anywhere anytime soon.”

They left the office not long after, and once the doors were closed, Pidge grabbed Shiro by the arm and tugged him down the hall. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“I need to find Coran,” she replied.

They hunted all across the second floor, asking several guards as they went. Eventually, they got a tip that he was in the throne room. Pidge took off down the stairs with Shiro hot on her heels, keeping pace with her as she ran to the massive wooden doors. The guards opened them for her, and instantly she picked up the echo of Coran’s infectious laughter ringing off the marble floors. 

She and Shiro slowed their pace to a walk, noting that Coran was talking with a small group of people near the steps leading up to the throne. Upon spotting Pidge, he called the meeting to a close and sent to people off so he could envelope her in a hug. “It’s good to see you, Pidge! All in one piece, as well.”

She hastily murmured her thanks before saying, “Did you know Keith was going to ask me to marry him?”

Coran chuckled, glancing discretely over at Shiro before saying, “Well, that’s one way to bring it up. And yes, for a few days now. Keith told me once we got word that you were on your way here. It was Lance’s suggestion.” 

“Really?” she gasped.

“Yes, really. The best possible outcome for Keith and the throne would be to marry a Holt, as the council made you well aware of,” he said, and Pidge scowled at the memories. “And I’m glad you didn’t let the councilmen pressure you into anything you didn’t want, necessarily.”

“But… hypothetically speaking, if I _didn’t_ marry Keith,” she started, “then who are his other options?”

“I have his suitors’ papers, if you want to have a look at them. I can’t say I’d be able to recite all of them off the top of my head anyway,” he suggested, and she instantly agreed.

As they walked, Coran entertained her with stories around the castle, seeing as he had little birds everywhere, relaying everything they saw. He succeeded in nearly making her forget what she came to him for in the first place. Still, she couldn’t ignore the fact that he didn’t once acknowledge Shiro, and she guiltily made no attempt to include him in the conversation. She feared Coran’s sharp tongue might reopen some wounds.

When they arrived at Coran’s office, Shiro stayed outside and left Pidge and Coran to read over Keith’s other suitors. Keith had met all of them before, and Coran relayed Keith’s opinions on them. The more they read through, the more ridiculous they all seemed. She couldn’t picture Keith with any one of these women. 

They talked for over an hour, and she was amazed by how much Coran seemed to understand her. He knew just how to calm her down. “Keith mentioned that he wouldn’t be offended if you declined,” he said. “But he _is_ worried about who you could end up with.”

“Before I left, the council hadn’t included me on the whole _suitor_ deal, except for Keith,” she said. “I’m sure they have a list like this as well.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. Would you like to see your file? It includes some of Keith’s competitors, just like all the others,” Coran said, about to reach for it, but Pidge shook her head quickly.

“I don’t care about that,” she said. “I’m mostly trying to solidify my decision.”

“Which is?” 

She lifted up one of the papers, staring down at the names of all the women Keith could have besides Pidge. “That they were right about one thing: this is the best option I’ll probably ever get. I guess I’m lucky that Keith has Lance considering I’m not interested in a sexual or romantic relationship,” she said. “And I won’t have to feel guilty for not having those types of feelings for him.”

“It is difficult, isn’t it?” he commented. “Out of everyone, I think Keith understands that the most. As much as I love how Lance improves Keith’s overall stability… their relationship is riddled with stress from decisions like this. The truth is, Lance is both a positive and negative influence on Keith.

“Adding you to the mix might balance that out,” he said, and laughed with Pidge snorted, covering her face with her hands. 

  


  


Evidently, everyone knew about the proposal before Pidge did. She confirmed her stance on the matter before the ‘Welcome Home Feast’, and at the dinner Hunk practically flattened her with the strength of his overjoyed hugs. All of their excitement about the political, platonic marriage helped ease Pidge’s worries. This was the right choice.

For the sake of that being the main topic, Pidge sat at the head of the table with Keith, and Rover sat at her side. She snuck treats to him and would rub and playfully stuck her tongue out at Lance as if to rub it in his face. She discovered that Lance was more or less amused by the fact that Pidge was going to be Keith’s beard. She was perfect for the part, apparently.

To Pidge’s delight, she found Coran sitting beside Shiro and promptly wondered if that was terribly planned at all—the seating arrangements were premade. But thankfully, Coran wasn’t being an ass as he usually was with Shiro. They were actually smiling together. She leaned over to ask Keith, who replied with, “I talked to him and told him to make conversation about Allura.”

She blinked in surprise, glancing back at the men before saying, “Wait, _seriously_?”

Keith shrugged and said, “They both love her, so I figured they could bond over that. It was a lucky shot.” 

“But isn’t _she_ one of the reasons why Coran hates Shiro?” she said, and left out the additional, _and also the fact that Shiro tried to kill me on multiple occasions_.

“Yeah, but until now he suspected it was a ruse. That Shiro’s affections couldn’t be genuine with his history of being a Champion,” he explained.

Pidge pressed her hands to her cheeks to keep from screaming excited. Shiro was shaking his head, looking alarmed, and Coran slouched against the back of his chair, laughing in relief. A smile crinkled Shiro’s cheeks as he leaned in to say something, and Coran waved a hand, chuckling.

Hunk sat across from them, and a seat was reserved beside him for the nurse Shay. The remainder of the table included officials, generals and captains that came with Pidge and Shiro to the capital. Shay sat next to the wife of one of the generals, and the woman was telling a dramatic story that sprinkled a smile across their faces—Shay and Hunk both. Beside Hunk, just to the left of Keith, was Lance. 

Lance discretely had his hand beneath the table, clutching onto Keith’s, and Pidge discovered that now she spent a lot of time trying to decipher just what, exactly, the both of them thought about her intrusion. She could understand why Keith sometimes seemed nervous about the ordeal, but she realized quickly that he was merely concerned about what _her_ thoughts were. And as far as she could see, or at least, from what Lance allowed her to see… he was just happy about it. 

While their engagement was spreading publicly, the official wedding date was to be determined. It meant that a lot of Terran people would be coming to Altea for the ceremony, and Pidge loathed to see most of them. Of course she loved her people, she just despised the councilmen and their irritating tendencies. And Keith knew their arrival would bring nothing but stress for her, so they delayed it for as long as possible. 

For at least two years. 

During that time, Pidge left the capital with Shiro and Rover to help the post-war effort beyond the Barrier. They helped rebuild towns that were destroyed in the war, until eventually arriving at one of the seaside villages that was evacuated before Allura’s fleet bombed the coast. They spent a month there before they received word that ships were on the horizon. 

Pidge was thrilled to see the way Shiro’s face lit up when the ships were close enough. He could recognize Allura’s fleet anywhere, and when the ships were anchored off the coast, Shiro dismissed himself from the village and hurried down the bluff to the coast.

He waited impatiently, pacing on the sand and leaving a flattened section of footsteps in his wake. Eventually one of the boats reached the sand, and he helped reel them in as one of the sailors relayed a message: “Allura was wondering if this is where you were located. We’ll send word.”

The sailor unlatched his revolver from his hip and inserted a single bullet. He raised it up to the sky and shot it, a small buffet of smoke whispering across the barrel. Shiro waited, studying the horizon where the fleet was. One of the sailors pointed out Allura’s ship, and no more than five seconds later, a blast echoed back.

Another boat was sent out, and soon Shiro could see the wisp of Allura’s white hair on the breeze. She stood up from the boat before they reached the sand and waved to him. A few feet from the coast she jumped out, feet splashing, and ran over the waves. He sprinted to her, water soaking his pants, and threw his arms around her. She collided with his chest, her hands going around his abdomen and squeezing the life out of him. 

“Shiro!” she shouted. “I missed you so much!”

“I missed you, too,” he said, voice muffled against her hair. She smelled like seaweed and salt and he didn’t mind a bit. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she laughed, pushing away to look at him clearly. Her hands brushed over his cheeks, and the stubble there. She combed her fingers through his white tuft and smiled brilliantly. He stared at her, starved of her angelic presence and wishing his past image of her wasn’t so foggy. Suddenly she was crystal clear.

He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, and reveled in the sensation of Allura’s coarse hands against his skin. She inhaled deeply, chest rising to such his, before breaking away to kiss him tenderly on the cheek. 

A particularly dense wave knocked their knees, and Allura stumbled against him. “Perhaps we should get out of the water,” she suggested, laughing.

They stepped out onto the sand, both of their pants now clinging to their ankles. She grinned at all of her sailors before waving them off and saying, “I’m going to pay a visit with Pidge until nightfall, do as you wish.”

They nodded to her as the both of them headed for the switchback trailing leading up the bluff. Other boats were coming in, some were following them up to the village. 

Shiro let Allura tug him up the hill by the hand, and once on flat ground, she seemed to yank him around with a death-grip around his arm. He didn’t mind it one bit, and when he could he looked at her with every intent of saying something about how beautiful she looked, but the words became lodged in his throat.

Pidge was in the fields beyond the village, working with some of the other people there. Rover was the first to spot Allura, and alerted Pidge with a bark. Allura started blazing her trail to Pidge, and Shiro let her grip loosen until Allura ran off ahead of him, sprinting to meet with Pidge. She threw her arms around Pidge adoringly, rocking her back and forth as she cried, “Pidge! Pidge, oh gods, I missed you so much. I’m so glad you’re doing so well.”

As Shiro approached, Allura started peppering kisses all across Pidge’s hair and forehead until the girl laughed for her to stop. She ruffled Pidge’s growing hair before pulling away and beaming at Shiro. “She’s growing up! Look at you, seventeen years old and everything,” she cooed at Pidge.

Pidge flattened her hair back down as she said, “Almost eighteen, mind you.”

“I haven’t seen you since we left the camp,” Shiro commented, drawing Allura’s attention back to him. “Why haven’t you come back?”

“Believe me, I wanted to,” she said, “but I’ve been focusing on recovering the damaged ships and building new ones. Most of our ships are built overseas—it’s a ways away. I wish I could have sent more letters.”

Shiro ducked his head, nodding discretely. Allura reached over and lifted his head up again, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’m here now, yeah?”

“You leave tonight,” he said, reminded of what she told her sailors.

She hesitated for a moment, her hand lowering to his shoulder before she said, “Only if I’m able to convince you to come with me again. We’re going to the capital harbor, and staying there. Until the King orders us elsewhere.”

Shiro hesitated, his eyes flickering between her’s. Her eyebrows raised in the center, her concern for him growing. “I’m so sorry we haven’t talked. I completely _abandoned you—_ ”

“You didn’t,” he insisted, shaking his head.

“Yes, but right now you look like a kicked puppy and I’m sorry I was the cause of it,” she said, voice hitching. “I should have _warned you_ —stuff like this happens and it may seem like I’m in charge of what I do and where I go but I’m at the whim of Altea and—and stuff like this happens and i-if that frustrates you or makes you angry then I’d understand i-if—if—”

“Gods,” Pidge muttered off to the side.

Shiro shook his head quickly, pulling Allura closer to him and leaning their heads together. “I want to stay with you. I’m okay with it, I promise. I should have expected it but I was still… surprised, I guess. Perhaps a little warning next time? Aside from a letter?” he suggested, and she nodded mutely. He brushed his hand over the side of her head, and the short, growing hair there. “You want a haircut?”

She laughed a little, nodding. “Yes, that would be nice.”

“Haircut?” Pidge repeated, eyes wide as they started to walk away. “Wait a second, you cut hair? Can you cut mine too? Shiro? _Shiro!_ You’ve heard me complain about my long hair for weeks now—Don’t walk away from me!”

Rover barked at their heels as Shiro pushed Allura ahead, playfully saying, “Run, run!” They started sprinting, and Pidge hollered after them, pegging Rover on to tackle Shiro. He narrowly avoided being taken out by the calf, but he didn’t make it far before Rover threw his full weight against Shiro’s back, pinning him to the ground as Pidge triumphantly towered over him. 

She placed her hands on her hips, a cheeky grin on her lips. “I demand you cut my hair, or else.”

A dribble of slobber trailed across the back of Shiro’s neck, and when he tried to get up, Rover growled at him. He flopped back down. “Or else what?”

“Or else I won’t let you come to my wedding.” She turned up her nose defiantly when Shiro scoffed and pushed on Rover’s nose. The pup sat on his stomach and waited for an apology that came only when Shiro sighed, relenting.

“Fine, call Rover off then, please?” He tipped his head to the side, peering around Rover’s white head.

Pidge whistled to her pup, and Rover hopped up to his feet and scurried to her side. Allura grinned at them both, assisting in pulling Shiro to his feet. “You know the hairdressers would prefer your hair longer,” he said, brushing off the back of his trousers as Pidge folded her arms across her chest and rolled her eyes.

“Keith’s hair is basically the same length as mine—I seriously doubt they’ll have a problem with working on shorter hair,” she said.

“So this is really happening then?” Allura commented, raising her brows at Pidge. “You are officially marrying Keith?”

“‘Officially’ by law, nonchalantly as friends,” she corrected. “We’re _just_ friends, and it will merge Terra and Altea, which is a plus after everything that happened with the Galra Empire. We won’t be like we were before—we’ll be better than that. No point in falling back on the past when it led to all of _this mess_.”

She gestured around them, and at the village they had to rebuild. The fields themselves were still a disaster—they couldn’t grow anything in the current soil and it would take a while for them to properly grow anything there. 

Allura looked over at Shiro, her smile unwavering, unlike her eyebrows. She quirked them up at him, and a touch of a smile reached his lips. She leaned over to reel Pidge against her side and gave her a squeeze as they started in the direction of the village. 

“Well, I think you’ll make an _excellent_ Queen,” Allura said with a smile that convinced Pidge that perhaps she was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY HOLIDAYS! I hope this ending suffices, considering I'm still trying to get into the swing of writing decent endings. I used to kill everyone off. That is no way to go about things. 
> 
> I'm not saying I'm all for Kidge--I think in this situation, they'd make the best platonic pair to take on the world. And I hate to think of Pidge as having to have a child, because I feel that if it were her choice, she wouldn't have kids. Already she is too cynical to believe that she'd be bringing a child into a loving and forgiving world. In the end, her decision to not have kids would be for their sake rather than her own, but it's not really her decision to make in the end as the Queen. She and Keith will have two children, both of whom are raised by nannies, Pidge, Lance, and Keith. Pidge believed having one child would put too much pressure on him or her, and having a companion through childhood would ease the burden of his or her future. The second child will become excellent friends with Hunk and Shay's children, and following university, will co-own Hunk's company. Allura and Shiro will have no children of their own, but will adopt a daughter. There will be no sequel covering these events, so I figured I'd include them here.
> 
> I plan on writing a new fantasy AU but I'm struggling with coming up with a neat, but subtle magical power that an assassin might have use in wielding. Until then, that idea will sit on the back burner as I am currently in the midst of starting a webcomic that will be posted on my Wattpad account.
> 
> Farewell, and a happy New Year!


End file.
